?uestion !verything

Invisible Touch (nonfic)

2010-05-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

The last time I recall thinking was regarding a song stuck in my head. I couldn't recall the name of the artist, the title, the lyrics, the verses, the hook, nor could I hum the chorus. With this fresh form of recollection of the unknown, I began to ponder my situation in life.
I had been unemployed for about six months, and was currently training to knock on peoples doors in order to count the inhabitants in the United States. Throughout the redundant training where things like "There will be no overtime," and "This is how you correctly write your name on a form," I began to recall a song. Maybe not a song, but a memory of a song. Maybe not a memory, but a glimpse of what music sticks in my head.
The song or memory or whatever stayed with me, overtook my mind, created a hole in my brain and a hold on my mind. Lost and attempting to recall anything about the unknown song, I pondered in deep concentration, ignoring the lesson on how to correctly write numbers down. I finally recalled the chorus of the song, but still could not remember the lyrics or verses. I could hear a man singing the song in my head: it was bizarre, without words, and competely 80's. The style narrowed my options down to Genesis/Phil Collins or Peter Gabriel: I had convinced myself that one of these men were singing the mysterious song. So what was I to do? Call my dad.
My father is the type of person who I can call out of the blue and ask "What is that song about the cake in the rain?" and he has an answer. More than that, he usually has the correct answer. More than that, he will take a large chunk out of his day to research it, give you the back story, burn a cd for you, and relay the story of how the song or concept affected his life. But I digress.
"Hey," my father said, "What's up?"
"What's that song by Peter Gabriel or Genesis that isn't Sledgehammer, Calling in the air, or Land of confusion?"
"How's it go?"
"I don't remember." I hummed what I could remember, but I admit, it wasn't very good.
"Who's it by?"
"The more I think about it, I think it's Genesis."
"Hold on, I'm buying dipers." My sister and her 11 month old child were going to be in town for the weekend.
"It's either Genesis or Phil Collins, but it might be Peter Gabriel."
"Is it Land of Confusion?"
"No, I already said that, I know how Land of Confusion goes. Isn't that the video with the puppets?"
"You're thinking of Sledgehammer."
"No, That one has claymation."
"Oh yeah, your mother loves that video"
"She loves Peter Gabriel"
"Yeah, so how does it go again?" I hummed what I remembered again.
"I'm pretty sure there's a key change in there. It's Genesis." I was pretty sure about it at that point.
"Why don't you bing it?" My father is currently obsessed with bing.
"I would have youtube'd it, but I'm not near a computer. Heh, bing it."
"What, bing is great; it will play snippits of songs by just mousing over the thumbnails."
"Okay, but that won't help me now. This song has been stuck in my head all day, I just need to know what it is."
"Well I don't know what it is."
"That's okay, I'll call someone else. How have you been?"
"Alright. Are you at training?"
"Waiting for the bus." I didn't tell him that I missed it while I was getting change and a cheese danish from the Greyhound bus station. I figured it was irrelevant, much like adding it to this story.
"Try singing it again." I did.
"I think the first word is she." I repeated the song, using she as the first word.
"I don't know, are you sure it's Genesis?"
"I think my bus is coming," I lied. "Thanks anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Alright, I love you, bye."
I was annoyed, with this stupid song stuck in my head, and I was at a loss of what to do. I thought I would have to wait until I got home to relieve myself of this musical plague. So I called my sister to bitch.
"What's that song by Genesis?"
"Hi, what's up?"
"Not too much."
"Land of Confusion?"
"No. It might be Peter Gabriel."
"Sled-"
"No."
"Calling in the air?"
"No, the other one."
"Can you hum a few bars?"
"Dad didn't know it." I hummed to the best of my ability. If I was wrong with how the song went, I was confident in my wrongness.
"Hold on, let me put you on speakerphone."
"Um... okay. Are you at work?"
"Yeah, Megan might know."
"Alright," I hummed again.
"Invisible touch!" Megan said halfway through the chorus.
"Thank You! Love you! Bye!" I said as the bus rounded the corner, and I rode home, singing "hmm hmm hmm hmm, invisible touch yeah... hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm, hmm hmm hmm hmm Hmm hmm hmm."

blogging

2009-03-21T21:36:00.001-07:00

The past year of my life has been rough. The past month of my life has been a shitstorm. I can't even find words of how to begin, so I'm not going to. I'm gonna post some more writing soon.

I'm working on stuff. Go me!

2009-01-27T21:46:00.000-08:00

In the stories I heard as a child, the prince always got the girl. My parents raised me to believe that if I were charming enough, my princess will become my happily ever after. They never expected her to be Prince Charming.
But before I begin, I need to say that real life has no "happy ending." Most endings are painful, slow, arduous, and end with no kiss, although if you're lucky enough you can pump out one last angry fuck. But then again, don't take my word for it: I'm the angry step-sister, the second-fairest, the huge fucking octopus, and the power-hungry lion who keeps with hyenas.

I met Colin Shifdale on a park bench, where his thumb was flicking an imaginary lighter in my direction. I pulled my black bic lighter from my pocket and snickered as the spring winds blew out the flame for three tries in a row. I didn't know it was a joint at first, but when the flame held long enough to ignite the tip, the smoke was not the same as the tobacco smoke rising from my right hand.
"Wanna hit?" His voice was strained from a deep inhale. I shook my head no, followed by a long drag off my cigarette.
The marajuana smoke was familiar, and my inner strugglee to resist contorted my face with unfamiliar twists and newly discovered wrinkles. He held out the hand with his join. It became his sixth finger, an extention of himself.
I smiled and declined again. I told him that I was a year and a half strong without it. "I haven't even smelled the stuff for a year," I said.
He scratched his scalp with his unoccupied hand and gently adjusted the black tuft above his head. His russet eyes then rested on my eyes. He staed straight into me, and in a flash I could see myself embracing him, our lips searching the confines of our mouths, and the smoke from his lungs reviving a dead addicition, as well as breathing life to a new one.
I shook my head like a chill forced my body to convulse, and looked at the way his vision had drifted. I gently touched his hand, barely caressing his knuckles. His eyes grew slightly, somewhat shocked by such a simple gesture. My hand felt his, and I continued down his hand until I took the joint and pressed it to my lips. With a deep inhale, the pot smoke was sweet, laced with the flavor of his lips. I let the smoke overtake my lungs, and breathed a short gasp when I realized what I had done, let alone what I got myself into.
"Thought you said you quit." His smirk was all I saw. I exhaled the smoke.
"People change," I said. I returned his joint, "And my old man told me quitters never win."
"Well, Mr...?"
"Mr. Alexander Traynor." I bowed my head slightly.
"Well, Mr. Traynor, thank you graciously for the light." He flicked the burning tip from his roach and swallowed the remainding paper and scalded pot.
"And you are?"
"Not real." He courtseyed.
"Then I guess I shouldn't bother giving you my number."
"Couldn't hurt," he stroked the short whiskers on his chin. "Even real people don't call every time, right?
"And what do you know of reality and her people?" I patted my pockets for something to write on, but all I had on me was a pack of cigarettes. I took them out of my pocket and mimed writing something into the wind.
"Nothing that isn't written in her books." He produced a pen.
"Then what should I call you, oh he who is not real?" took out a cigarette and wrote my phone number on it.
"I don't smoke." He reluctantly reached for the cigarette as if it were covered in slime and smelled like dry urine.
"Neither do I," and lit one of my own as I walked away.
When I looked back, he was turning the cigarette through his fingers. He saw me looking back and cupped his right hand around the side of his mouth. "Colin," he half shouted. My grin spred wide, and I turned around, never expecting to see him again.

Flash Fiction

2008-12-16T09:59:00.000-08:00

Shay would strut down the road in heavy rain singing the soundtrack of his life: his belting louder than if he were on stage. He would move along side the parked cars as minivans and SUVs splashed water onto his drenched black converse. Shay would not miss a beat, increasing his volume as the rain grew harsher. The downpour provided a chaotic new rhythm to his quirky songs. He razed his hair with his hands causing a storm cloud above his body, and he smiled.

I miss you.

2008-05-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

An 80 year old died a week or so ago. She was a fiery red-head who danced at my graduation party, also my wedding to myself. She was a wonderful person who helped many people, but was never taken advantage of. She would tell people exactly what she thought. She refused to go to a restaurant she was not able to smoke in. She told me she loved me for the first time a couple months ago.
I wonder if she knew. Somewhere deep down, maybe she was aware. She gave items away to her children, she signed her house off a year ago, she stopped paying her life insurance, due to expire in 2013. She was alive, and then she needed triple bypass surgery.
Her last words were in a somewhat nagging, somewhat sarcastic tone, "Just so you know, I didn't want to do this." She rarely told people that she loved them. I remember one time on the phone with her, she thought I was my dad. I corrected her, and told her that he would call back. I said I love you. She said, "uh huh." But in November she told me she loved me.
It's strange to think that 3 weeks ago she was dancing at my party, and last week I attended her funeral.
They played "Old Time Rock and Roll" after the church service. She had been telling people to play it for 10 years. I'm glad they did.
I carried her casket, and almost tripped over a headstone. Out of the 6 of us carrying her, I think only 3 of us were effected, the other three just along for the ride.
It's a shame family only get together for funerals and weddings. That's why I will still go to the family rituals she forced us to keep going to. I'm happy I had a graduation party now. We were all together. She got to see everyone happy before she passed.
There are so many stories to tell. I know only a fraction of all the stories there. What I have is golden. She was an awesome person, invincible in my eyes. I was crushed to see her dead, but she still looked good as ever.
Here's to Grandma Radebaugh.
Here's to Aunt Honey.

"The Good In People" - rewrite of Comfortable Silence

2008-04-22T14:42:00.001-07:00

Alex received the call two years after the relationship ended and two months after he felt as though he was over it. The call came on Halloween. He let his cell phone ring until voicemail as he stared in disbelief at the caller ID. He was rocking back and forth, bouncing off of people in the tiny living room adorned with black and orange paper decorations. His costumed friends were all dancing; shoulder to shoulder, back to back. Alex was surrounded with ghouls and goblins, and he was dressed as Clark Kent, as a man with a secret.

There was no clear end to Alex and John’s friendship in Alex’s mind. They had built their bridge in a couple of years and burnt it down in a couple of months. Lost in thought, Alex pushed through the crowd of people. He found his way to the bathroom and took a deep breath, exhaling the heat of the party. He took out his phone. It read ‘one new message,’ one more trial to face.

Anytime Alex heard about or from John, he froze. He became less able to talk, less able to comprehend. He called his messages after enough breath was circulated. He braced himself for John’s voice, braced for something he had not heard in years. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force out the tears before they formed. He removed his Clark Kent glasses, but did not transform; he was not Superman.

Alex heard the message start. A static sea was on the other end of his phone. He was a man pressing a shell against his ear, hearing only a dial tone. Alex heard a deep breath, a crashing wave, and then silence.

“To save this message, press nine.” Alex pressed seven, and ended the call to his voicemail. With his glasses back on and another deep breath, he was launched back into the group of people like a pinball, bouncing off the bumpers without a willful decision of where he was going. He asked a few people where Sam was. They directed him upstairs like flippers shooting him up a ramp.

Alex felt confused, angry, frustrated, hopeful, and disappointed; but mostly sad. Alex found Sam sitting on the top stair. She was fingering a small piece of paper and tiny green leaves. She was dressed as a genie, wearing a shiny green tube top and matching costume skirt. Maybe she’ll grant my wishes. She looked up at him.

“Want some?” She licked the paper and completed a small tube like a crude piece of origami.

“Guess who just called,” he said. She examined her joint for mistakes and pulled a few lose flakes out of the tube. She curled one end into a fuse.

“Did you answer?”

Alex shook his head. “No, and no message.”

Sam looked at him un-phased, like this was old news. “He’s showing up.”

“What?!” He tried not to alarm the rest of the party.

“He’s showing up, pay attention.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Please,” she said, “spare me your broken heart. We all know how you get when we even think about him.” Alex knew that he was a topic of conversation, but was not aware that Sam was elected as their voice. “We miss him, haven’t seen him for a while. He said he wants to see you.”

“He said he what?” Alex focused on the wood-grain pattern imbedded in the stairs. He barely heard Sam sigh.

“Well… do you want some?” She lit the fuse with a lighter. Alex guessed that she bought it that night to match her outfit. The smoke billowed around her and only added to the effect of her costume.

“I think I’m gonna go.”

“No, you’re just gonna mill around and try pretend like nothing’s wrong. Right?”

Alex leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, a mother reassuring her child. Everything is going to be alright. It should have been the other way around.

Downstairs, the lamps flickered as he past them, some of them turning off entirely, a strobe light effect that made him dizzy. He thought about what he would say once John showed up.

In August, Alex finally gave up on him. He realized that the continuation of his longing and waiting for a phone call would ultimately be fruitless. He stopped sitting by the phone and pressing the call button just before hanging up. He stopped drinking, mostly because of financial reasons. He forced himself to appear happier. He forced a smile and associated with his old friends. He would not let his unhappiness ruin other people’s moods. He noticed that when he stopped complaining about it, people suddenly had time to stick around, meetings disappeared.

He also stopped worrying about what he did wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. He would affirm himself. Things just happened. Things are how they should be. I am a better person because of it. Sometimes he even believed himself.

The last time Alex had seen or heard from John was Halloween two years prior. They had dressed as Shaggy and Fred from Scooby Doo: Alex did not need to wear a wig for Shaggy, and John did not need to shop for an outfit. He imagined them as a plant splitting at the roots, each longing for a different direction but unable to separate.

That night, John said goodbye for the first time Alex could recall: not ‘see you later,’ not ‘take care,’ and not ‘have fun.’ Alex pained himself over the small farewell.

Alex remembered a time when he and Jhon had been sitting for hours sipping coffee and waxing intellect. They were discussing the comic book movies that were transformed into movies. John appeared thrilled when his childhood of still pictures began to move in front of him.

“But the problem with the movies,” Alex said, “Is that they make it completely into a good versus evil story.”

“It is a good versus evil story.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a story about two people and their opposing views. It’s about the good in all people, and it’s about the struggle of people, not some abstract good or evil.”

“But villains are evil.” John said.

“I don’t like the idea of villains,” Alex said.

“But then who do the heroes fight?”

“Anti-heroes.”

“Anti-what nows?” John looked confused, an arched eyebrow defining the wrinkles that had formed. Alex confused John often.

“Anti-heroes. They’re kind of like villains, but with a utilitarian outlook on life.”

“How so?” John said. Alex thought about this, stirring his coffee with a butter knife. He took a sip of it, burning his throat as he felt the steam rise in his chest.

“Well, think of it like this. Villains are evil guys, who do evil things, right?” John nodded in agreement. “Well an anti-hero is a person who saves humanity by killing people.”

“How is killing people saving them?”

“Hmm… well, the anti-hero may see something that he doesn’t like about society.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, health care or something.” Alex knew how a little joke could go a long way. They both paused, silently laughing inside. Alex considered this the best kind of laughter, that which only a select few can see. “But anyway, so the anti-hero is mad about health care, and so he decides that the solution is to steal money and kill people and stuff. He is solving the issue, and it’s for his twisted greater good.”

“I really hope you’re joking,” John said. He looked at the strange elbowed patterns in the standard Denny’s laminated table.

“I don’t have hope,” Alex said.

“In what?”

“In general.” He motioned to the waitress for a coffee refill.

“In what in general?”

“I don’t believe in hope.”

“What do you believe in?” John cupped his hands over his mouth, holding on tightly to any emotion. Alex rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“The good in people,” Alex said. Comfortable silence; the first of many. They looked at each other, silent and happy. Neither of them moved or blinked.

“Ahh.” John had proved a point that which Alex was still grabbing strings. “So you believe in something.”

“But I don’t hope for the good in people.”

“But you believe in it.” John removed his hands from his mouth; a sign of triumph Alex would recognize well and, in time, adore. Alex smiled.

“Belief is different than hope. That’s why they’re different words.” Alex raised his glass and silently said, ‘cheers.’

“Is one needed for the other?”

“What’s your point.” It was a statement. Alex felt close to finding it. He needed it said.

“You have to hope to believe in goodness.”

“Define goodness.”

“You said it first, not me,” John said. He re-cupped his mouth.

“It’s subjective.”

“Then pick an objective word.”

“No,” Alex said. John uncovered his mouth. Alex could tell that John had won whatever tournament they were competing for.

“So you do hope.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you do.”

“Not by any fault of my own.”

“But you do.” John pressed onward, determined to conjure the words. He as the puppet master, Alex was the puppet.

“You use rhetoric better than anyone else I’ve met.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Alex said. He was proven wrong, and although he enjoyed the disagreement, he was upset that he tripped over his words like a three-legged horse in a steeple chase.

“I’m taking it as one.”

“You’re my anti-hero.”

“Or are you mine?”

Alex collapsed on Sam’s bed. He stared at the off-white ceiling tiles and briefly considered fixing them. Tears invaded his eyes, a few escaped. His thoughts raced at light speed, but the bed was a black hole. He was drawn into it; timeless, unable to move.

He suddenly felt sober, and saw this as a problem. In the kitchen, he grabbed three jell-o shots and a beer, and continued through the party, empty hellos and shallow waves all around.

Alex saw a couple of hushed whispers, people covering their mouths and hiding the opinions they freely gave to all who did not apply. He thought it stilly, how their mouths were covered. He couldn’t even read lips, why would he care what they were talking about. But then Alex saw that the sideways glances that accompanied the whispers were directed towards him. John was there. He could feel it.

How suiting to see Superman strut through the door, confident about nothing in particular. The form fitting outfit complimented him well, Alex thought. Clark Kent might finally meet Superman. Alex thought about how clever that was, probably finding out that he was going as the alter ego from Sam. Alex realized that he was staring when John looked directly at him. He broke the eye contact and went back to the kitchen. Earlier, he tried to pace himself and not drink as much as he did in the past. This was no concern of his now. Every person he saw took a shot with him. They smiled and cheered, a different toast for every shot.

Sam appeared from the hallway and caught Alex’s attention. He walked over to her, beginning to feel buzzed from the alcohol. Sam looked at him like a disappointed mother. He half expected her to say, “I’m not angry… just disappointed,” the most painful words for a child to hear.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” Sam said.

“I did.” He swallowed the shot he had in his hand.

“Under normal circumstances, you know I’d be pissed at you.”

“Under normal circumstances, I am pissed at you.”

“Understandable,” she said. “He wants to go get coffee, but doesn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Hmm. I don’t think I want to go get coffee with Superman. He might overshadow my costume.” He focused all his energy into enunciating his words.

“You’re going to go, and you’re gonna get this over with once and for all. You’ll feel better, trust me.”

“No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll never talk to you again, and I’ll start hanging out with John every night to dissuade you from talking to me.”

Alex said nothing.

“He’s by his car. Just do it.”

“Fine. We’re even, then.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Alex gave a slight bow and a kiss on the cheek to signal his departure.

Outside, he looked at the cars for John’s silver neon. It was a losing game Alex played often, but this time the odds were in his favor. Alex became very emotionally involved throughout the relationship. They embraced often, and they embraced well. Alex would become intimately interlocked with John, each of them fitting together like pieces in a puzzle. They complimented each other and became one in the hug. I don’t want to touch him, Alex thought.

Each step he took was forced and purposeful. He tried to clear his mind of thoughts other than walking. The street was illuminated by neon signs and a full moon. Alex tried to inhale deeply without showing John hesitation or weakness. After the initial sighting, Alex kept his eyes focused on the ground. He counted his steps and only allowed his foot to land on the white paint that protected him from cars.

“Hey,” John said, “I’m starving. Screw coffee, let’s go to Denny’s?”

“Sure.” Alex ruined his own plan. He now had no escape; the restaurant was half an hour way, driving time. John opened the passenger door of a strange car; not the silver neon, and not a car he would ever pick out for John.

The two drove in a giant’s car. Alex missed the intimacy of the Neon, and wondered why John had made the switch from a car to a barge. Alex opened the window and imagined jumping out on the highway. He would tumble like a gymnast and become as bruised as a boxer. He wondered if John would turn around.

John talked about his job for the thirty minute ride. He had become a store manager of Macy’s and had saved up enough for the SUV he drove. Alex tried to tune him out and continued to stare out the window. He wondered when they would talk about the elephant in the back seat riding with them. After a dozen asinine stories of uninteresting workplace occurrences, they arrived at the restaurant. Alex walked across the parking lot, hands buried in pockets and head hung low. He felt like a man walking death row.

Alex had dreaded this encounter, but after an hour of small talk, everything seemed “normal.” They were catching up; it reminded Alex of his high school reunion. Who saw who, who’s married, who’s working where. Alex was relaying a series of stories about his and Sam’s nightly bar-crawling.

“We fashioned ourselves as pirates,” Alex chuckled.

“Why were you drinking so much?” Alex waited a second to answer the question. He chose his words carefully.

“Are you kidding?” Alex said. “You.” John looked at Alex. They were fastened to each other with an invisible beam of light that neither could look away from. A scoff escaped Alex’s lips. “You ruined everything we had.” John did not respond, did not move. He cupped his hands over his mouth, and Alex could tell he was holding back tears. He never saw John cry, and thought how suiting it would be for Superman to be crying in Denny’s. Nobody would see it coming.

“What do you want me to say?” John said.

“What can you say?”

“I would apologize, but I don’t think you would believe me… or forgive me.”

“Do you think I should?” Alex used every ounce of strength in himself to remain calm.

“I’d like you to.”

“But is it warranted?”

“I’ve given you no reason to trust me anymore.”

“So imagine that you’re me. Would you forgive yourself?” Alex said. What followed was a silence, bulky and awkward. Alex debated calling a friend for a ride home, and thought he saw John reaching for his keys. They looked around the room and avoided eye contact. Alex opened his phone beneath the table and began to text Sam. She was probably still at the party, stoned and dancing, but mostly happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually happy.

“No,” John said, “I probably wouldn’t.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I thought you might.

“And why is that?”

“Because you believe in the good in people.” John squirmed around in his seat. Alex rubbed his chin on his shoulder. He traced his eyebrow, following the skin after and touching the top of his ear. How long ago had he said that? He took off his glasses. He was even thinking about that conversation earlier. He wondered if he was naïve in thinking that, in saying that. He looked directly at John’s eyes for the first time all night. They were glazed.

“You proved me wrong.” Alex said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

"Comfortable Silence

2008-03-25T14:50:00.001-07:00

Alex received the call two years after the relationship ended and two months after he felt as though he was over it. The call came on Halloween. He let his cell phone ring until voicemail as he stared in disbelief at the caller ID. He was rocking back and forth, bouncing off of people in the tiny living room adorned with black and orange paper decorations. His costumed friends were all dancing; shoulder to shoulder, back to back. He was dressed as Clark Kent, as a man with a secret. Alex was surrounded with ghouls and goblins as ghosts from his past revisited.

There was no clear end to Alex and Jhon’s friendship in Alex’s mind. They had built their bridge in a couple of years and burnt it down in a couple of months. Lost in thought, Alex pushed through the crowd of people. He found his way to the bathroom and took a deep breath, exhaling the heat of the party. He took out his phone. It read ‘one new voicemail,’ one more trial to face.

Anytime Alex heard about or from Jhon, he froze. He became less able to talk, less able to comprehend. He called his messages after enough breath was circulated. “One new message,” the automated voice told him. He braced himself for Jhon’s voice, braced for something he had not heard in years. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force out the tears before they formed. “First new message.” He removed his Clark Kent glasses, but did not transform; he was not Superman.

Alex heard the message start. A static sea was on the other end of his phone. He was a man pressing a shell against his ear, hearing only a dial tone. Alex heard a deep breath, a crashing wave.

“Hey Alex, it’s Jhon.” Alex’s eyes shot open in an elastic snap. In a way he thought he imagined his call. In a way he wished it was all in his imagination. “Um…” He sounds the same, Alex thought, confident, but without anything to say. “Well, uh, I’m moving back to Chicago, and, um, well, I’d like to see you before I go. So… yeah. Hopefully I’ll talk to you soon. Okay. Yeah.”

“Want some?” She licked the paper and completed a small tube like a crude piece of origami.

“Guess who just called me,” he said. She examined her joint for mistakes and pulled a few lose flakes out of the tube. She curled one end into a fuse.

“Did you answer?” Alex shook his head.

“No, he’s moving home.” Sam looked at him un-phased, like this was old news. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He said he wants to see me.” Alex focused on the wood-grain pattern imbedded in the stairs. He barely heard Sam sigh.

“I think I’m gonna go.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” she said through the smoke. Alex leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, a mother reassuring her child. It should have been the other way around.

* * *

Alex walked centered on the road. The lamps flickered as he past them, some of them turning off entirely. He wondered whether or not to return Jhon’s call.

In august, he finally gave up on Jhon. He realized that the continuation of his longing and waiting for a phone call would ultimately be fruitless. He stopped sitting by the phone and pressing the call button just before hanging up. He stopped drinking, mostly because of financial reasons. He forced himself to appear happier, and stopped worrying about what he did wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. He would affirm himself. Things just happened. Things are how they should be. I am a better person because of it. Sometimes he even believed himself.

The last time Alex had seen or heard from John was Halloween two years prior. They had dressed as Shaggy and Fred from Scooby Doo: Alex did not need to wear a wig for Shaggy, and Jhon did not need to shop for an outfit. At that point, Alex still felt like a part of Jhon’s team, but the distance was building up and breaking them at the seams. Alex pretended like everything was okay, but Jhon was further away. He imagined them as a plant splitting at the roots, each longing for a different direction but unable to separate.

That night, Jhon said goodbye for the first time Alex could recall: not ‘see you later,’ not ‘take care,’ and not ‘have fun.’ Alex pained himself over the small farewell. But ‘goodbye’ was the last thing Alex thought he would hear from Jhon. Once again, Jhon had proved him wrong.

The thought drove Alex’s train of thought to another station in his memory. Alex remembered a time when he and Jhon had been sitting for hours sipping coffee and waxing intellect.

“I don’t have hope,” Alex said.

“In what?”

“In general.” He motioned to the waitress for a coffee refill.

“In what in general?”

“I don’t believe in hope.”

“What do you believe in?” Jhon cupped his mouth over his hands, holding on tightly to any emotion. Alex rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“The good in people,” Alex said. Comfortable silence; the first of many.

“Ahh.” Jhon had proved a point that Alex was still grabbing strings for. “So you believe in something.”

“But I don’t hope for the good in people.”

“But you believe in it.” Jhon removed his hands from his mouth; a sign of triumph Alex would recognize well and, in time, adore. Alex smiled.

“Belief is different than hope. That’s why they’re different words.” Alex raised his glass and silently said, ‘cheers.’

“Is one needed for the other?”

“What’s your point.” It was a statement. Alex felt close to finding it. He needed it said.

“You have to hope to believe in goodness.”

“Define goodness.”

“You said it first, not me,” Jhon said. He re-cupped his mouth.

“It’s subjective.”

“Then pick an objective word.”

“No,” Alex said. Jhon uncovered his mouth. Alex could tell that Jhon had won whatever tournament they were competing for.

“So you do hope.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you do.”

“Not by any fault of my own.”

“But you do.” Jhon pressed onward, determined to conjure the words. He as the puppet master, Alex was the puppet.

“You use rhetoric better than anyone else I’ve met.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Alex said. He was proven wrong, and although he enjoyed the disagreement, he was upset that he tripped over his words like a three-legged horse in a steeple chase

* * *

Alex collapsed on his bed. He stared at the off-white ceiling tiles and briefly considered fixing them. He removed his costume and stared into the light above his bed. Tears invaded his eyes, a few escaped. His thoughts raced at light speed, but his bed was a black hole. He was drawn into it; timeless, unable to move.

It seemed to Alex that when he needed Jhon, he was not accessible. Now that Alex lived without him, he called. But he’s leaving, he thought, does that change anything? Maybe Jhon wanted to end on a good note, to say goodbye again. Alex thought that maybe Jhon understood that his disconnection was wrong and unwarranted. No, Jhon would not apologize. Jhon doesn’t even realize the severing he did between us. Alex wanted to reject the apology he knew would not come.

Alex picked up the phone and dialed Jhon’s number. He memorized it after deleting it from his phone. He was used to hearing Jhon’s voicemail message, a poorly recorded Beck song. Alex introduced Jhon to the song, but he had grown to hate it.

“Hello Alexander.”

“Jhonathan.” He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. He fooled his own ears. “Coffee?”

“Sounds good. When?”

“Free Tuesday?”

“Around ten?”

“Ten’s good. Starbucks?”

“Alright.”

“I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Yep. Tuesday.”

“Maybe dinner?” Jhon said.

“We’ll see.”

“Ten on Tuesday.”

“Goodbye.” Silence.

“Alright.” Jhon ended the call.

Alex threw his phone across the room. Stupid idea, he thought. Stupid.

* * *

Why am I doing this? Alex thought. He looked at the cars for Jhon’s silver neon. It was a losing game Alex played often, but the odds were in his favor. Alex became very emotionally involved during his and Jhon’s friendship. They embraced often, and they embraced well. Alex understood where the name of ‘Bear Hugs’ came from after a few. I don’t want to touch him.

Each step he took was forced and purposeful. He tried to clear his mind of thoughts other than walking. Alex was early, and expected Jhon to be his normal ten minutes late. It would give him time to prepare, although he had two years to prepare for this meeting. Alex stood across the street from Starbucks and spotted Jhon at nine fifty-five. Alex searched his spinning mind for another time Jhon was early, but could not remember one. Alex’s heart stuck somewhere between his mouth and his lungs.

The street was illuminated by neon signs and a full moon. Alex tried to inhale deeply without showing Jhon hesitation or weakness. After the initial sighting, Alex kept his eyes focused on the ground. He counted his steps and only allowed his foot to land on the white paint that protected him from cars.

“Hey,” Jhon said, “I’m starving. Wanna skip and go to Denny’s?”

“Sure.” Alex ruined his plan. He now had no escape; the restaurant was half an hour way, driving time. Jhon opened the passenger door of a strange car; not the silver neon, and not a car he would ever pick out for Jhon.

The two drove in a giant’s car, big enough for six adults. Alex opened the window and imagined jumping out on the highway. He would tumble like a gymnast and become as bruised as a boxer. He wondered if Jhon would turn around.

Jhon talked about his job for the thirty minute ride. Alex tuned him out and continued to stare out the window. He wondered when they would talk about the elephant in the back seat riding with them. After a dozen asinine stories of uninteresting workplace occurrences, they arrived at the restaurant. Alex walked across the parking lot, hands buried in pockets and head hung low. He felt like a man walking death row.

Alex had dreaded this encounter, but after an hour of small talk, everything seemed normal. They were catching up; it reminded Alex of his high school reunion. Who saw who, who’s married, who’s working where. Alex was relaying a series of stories about his and Sam’s nightly bar-crawling.

“We fashioned ourselves as pirates,” Alex chuckled.

“Why were you drinking so much?” Alex waited a second to answer the question. He chose his words carefully.

“Are you kidding?” Alex said. “You.” Jhon looked at Alex. They were fastened to each other with an invisible beam of light that neither could look away from. A scoff escaped Alex’s lips. “You ruined everything we had.” Jhon did not respond, did not move. He cupped his hands over his mouth, and Alex could tell he was holding back tears. He never saw Jhon cry.

“What do you want me to say?”

“What can you say?”

“I would apologize, but I don’t think you would believe me… or forgive me.”

“Do you think I should?” Alex used every ounce of strength in himself to remain calm.

“I’d like you to.”

“But is it warranted?”

“I’ve given you no reason to trust me anymore.”

“So imagine that you’re me. Would you forgive yourself?” Alex said. What were once comfortable silences between them were now bulky and awkward. Alex debated calling a friend for a ride home.

“No. I probably wouldn’t.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I thought you might.

“And why is that?”

“Because you believe in the good in people.”

“You proved me wrong.”

“I’m sorry, “Jhon said.

“I understand.”

I don't have a title for this one... I used "Pane"

2008-03-18T21:21:00.001-07:00

Light streamed through the window, escaping in a thin stream and cutting the room into top and bottom. The yellowed light of early morning pierced through Colin’s bedroom.

Colin couldn’t sleep and spent what he guessed was half an hour counting the number of holes in his ceiling. He glanced to his right to look at Amy through the corner of his eye. She was still wearing the necklace he bought her for their half-year anniversary, which they celebrated last month. He took her to an upscale restaurant with a name he couldn’t pronounce. He continued to look at her. Her eyes were closed, and a thin wave of hair rested between her upper lip and nose.

Colin forced his hand into the stream of light above him. The yellow enveloped his hand. It outlined each of his digits, making them seem lankier than they did in normal lighting. When his hand was removed, the pane of light restored itself; perfect once again.

The bed bounced slightly as Amy adjusted her position. Colin scratched the back of his neck and left it there. He turned his head toward Amy. Her eyes were framed by dark circles, and they were open just enough to allow small parentheses of brown to escape.

“Can’t sleep?” Amy said. Her voice was harsh and deeper than normal. Colin reached to the side of his bed and grabbed his khaki shorts from the ground. He felt around the pockets and found a box of cigarette. Two remained in the pack and were smashed against the foil wall by a packet of matches. The sulfur invaded his nostrils as he struck a match against the red line. He felt around for a glass ashtray on his bedside table and rested it on his bare chest. The cold of the glass flowed through his body, returning to the spot the ashtray rested. He closed his eyes and tried for a brief moment to fall into the coma of sleep.

The smoke rose in curls, twisting through the glass ceiling of light. The grey smoke transformed into a blue flame when passing through the light. The twists and turns made spirals and question marks. The light slowly became brighter as the sun rose higher. Little by little, the light in the room intensified.

Colin raised his right arm and placed it around Amy. She curled into the area he created for her. A cylinder of ash fell on his chest, just missing the ashtray. He brushed it off in the opposite direction of Amy. He could feel her warmth against his body. She was usually warmer than he was; she called him ‘my polar bear.’

Colin felt the nape of her neck, his fingers glided smoothly on her skin as gracefully as an ice skater. He traced his name, her name, and drew small pictures of flowers and stars on her skin. She looked up at him, her tired eyes searching his face.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyebrows leaned in slightly; they reached out for each other.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?” His whisper was louder than he expected, and he was startled by the sound of his own voice. Amy withdrew from Colin, propping her head on her hand. Her elbow forced an indentation into the mattress.

The smoke filled the room as Colin extinguished his cigarette. The red embers exploded in the ashtray. A thin line of smoke drifted upward, no deciding on a direction to float. It gently billowed across and through the blade of light. The angle had shifted with the height of the Sun. It moved lower in the room, closer toward the bed; the separation of top and bottom became increasingly disproportionate.

Colin was trapped in a crystal case; wall and Amy to his sides, bed below, and the light ceiling slowly caving in on him. He mimicked Amy’s position, mirroring her elbow and hand placement.

“No, we can’t talk about it tomorrow,” she said. Colin wiped away the small beads of sweat from his head, taking all emotion with it. He tried to engage her in a silent conversation. His eyes focused on her pupils, not moving, not flinching. He tried, but could not feel her budging.

“Nothing’s wrong.” He knew that it did not convince her. His elbow gave out like a pillar under a pier. The dock crashed into the water. He buried his head into his pillow.

“I thought we were past the petty lying.” The bed bounced again as she shifted to her right side, facing away from Colin.

The light faded from the room; the overcast day diluted the sun. It faded in and out, finally becoming bright again. The thin stream brightened the entire room. The smoke had mostly dissipated. The clouds had escaped through cracks in the window and ceiling, free at last.

The light was bright on Colin’s face. He squinted, trying to save his eyes from the harsh morning. He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, his palms digging into his eye sockets. He turned to the left and placed his feet on the small island between wall and bed. The light was not dividing Colin, his top and bottom detached with contrast.

“I have to go to the can.” He sauntered to the door, barely keeping balance.

"Don't Blink"

2008-02-20T00:06:00.000-08:00

Colin jammed his thumbs into the corners of his eyes until the darkness was pierced with a vague light and his head pounded. He released the pressure and opened his eyes. The dull light from the summer afternoon painted the world yellow. He looked across the long patio lined with tables and saw a familiar figure walking toward him. He recognized Kendra’s piercing emerald eyes from four tables away. Her brown hair waved hello to him with the warm August breeze.

Earlier that day, Kendra had called him and requested a meeting. She spoke like a hungry child asking for one more cookie before dinner. Colin realized that her distance made sense: they hadn’t talked for about two months. Her voice wasn’t the strong and powerful voice of Kendra he once knew. He was angry still about an unpaid bet debt for something he couldn’t quite recall, but involved a cabbage and some socks. Colin couldn’t remember most of the nights he spent with Mr. Jose Cuervo.

The distance was closing between Kendra and Colin, but he could feel himself growing colder towards her with the setting sun. It wasn’t just the 20 dollars for winning the bet that aggravated him. He was angry about being taken for granted, that he would show up at her beckoned call. His face twisted, his eyebrows raised. His soft blue eyes glossed slightly as he realized that he allowed himself to be taken for granted. He agreed to meet with her.

Kendra slipped herself in between the table and bench. The bottom of her teal skirt hung loosely over the bench like a picnic tablecloth. Colin couldn’t help but stare at the scene. He looked at her smooth pale legs she rarely revealed. They were strong legs, and Colin remembered the times they walked together; through the park, to the different neighborhoods, around the tourist attractions at dusk. Her eyes looked especially sharp in the cool grey skies of winter and pale mornings of spring.

He shook his head to jolt himself back to Kendra. She sat on the bench to his right, not across from him. To look at her, he raised his foot and leaned back slightly. He hooked the foot under his left knee. She looked at him, her rose red lips parted slightly to reveal her pearly white teeth, her perfect smile, her proportioned face. He missed her. He hated her.

“How’s it going?” Kendra said. Colin smiled and nodded his head. He looked at the cobble stone ground littered with cigarette butts and a stray Starbuck’s cup making more noise than the pair of them sitting at the table. Kendra’s left thumb stroked her right palm, and she stared intently at it.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on something other than him. The yellow fled from the world: the concrete was no longer a shimmering gold but the normal dull grey. Colin traced her glance to the dancing coffee cup and debated standing and throwing it away along with what was left of their friendship without looking back. He’s already here, he thought. Might as well see what she wants. He rubbed his scalp as if he could pull patience from his roots.

“So, what’s up?” He didn’t want to beat around the bush, but if she wanted to keep making small talk then Colin would allow it. She looked up into his eyes. What he once imagined as glass had shattered and exposed the core of her eyes, something glossy and no longer emotionless.

They had an unspoken contest of who would look away first. Colin would not blink, would not concede: his jaw tightened and eyes focused on a small freckle above her left eyebrow.

During the stare, Colin searched his mind for something to say. The last time they saw each other was at Colin’s graduation party. All of their friends were there, including Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, Captain Morgan, and Jimmy Beam. Their significant others were not able to make it. Colin welcomed the chance to be apart from their ties, to be college freshmen again, dancing in the frat houses and drunkenly dialing long forgotten friends from high school.

It was nice to have the old crew again; the townies and the academy. T&A they called themselves. That was the first night since their first year that all of them assembled. It was a celebration, a reunion, and, most importantly, a party. T&A came in pairs, two by two into Colin’s arc.

There was catching up to do. Reminiscing followed. The stories went from harmless stories of first impressions to embarrassing moments; like the time Colin let the party introduce a razor to his armpits or the time the party found Kendra’s collection of sex toys.

They played drinking games. After a couple of rounds of beer pong, Colin and Kendra were an undefeated duo. They defeated team after team until the music turned on and dancing began. The beer pong champions were tied together by an invisible rope. They twisted and turned, trying to untie the endless knots binding them together. Hours passed, and people separated them to congratulate Colin and said farewell. The bottles were emptying like the list of attendees.

Then someone suggested spin the bottle. The game started with a large circle on the floor. The first few spins were resolved by a peck expected by a mother to her child. The circle grew smaller as the connections grew longer. More people filtered out of the party, others passed out interlocked on couches or naked carpet.

Colin and Kendra were the last to survive the party. They joked about how some things never changed; they were generally the final two of the night. They left the sleeping drunks alone and relocated to Colin’s bedroom with half used bottle of rum.

Six shots and sixteen hours later Colin woke up next to Kendra. Her blouse and jean skirt laid crumpled in a mountain next his R.E.M. tee shirt and khaki shorts. He kept his eyes closed as she gathered her things and tiptoed out of the bedroom. After two months they were reunited in the same patio they met. Full circle, he thought.

Kendra finally looked away. Colin squeezed his eyes close together and welcomed the moisture. He still felt responsible for aiding Kendra with cheating on her boyfriend. But then again, she was a catalyst for breaking up with his ex-girlfriend. He assumed that to be the reason for their broken contact, but an excuse can only take one so far. Regardless, she refused to answer or return his phone calls. The point couldn’t be made that he made no attempt.

He kept his head in the comfort of his palm. Through his periphery he saw the lights over the patio flicker a few times before everything was bathed in a soft white light. Colin could almost taste the silence between them. He knew that even though he won the “contest,” she would not initiate the conversation or even the inevitable argument. They were two rhinos scraping their feet in the dirt, waiting for the other to charge.

He frantically thought for the name of Kendra’s betrayed boyfriend. After mentally listing 20 some odd names, he gave up on the futile attempt. It was on the tip of his tongue like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“How’s the boy?” he said. Did she clear her throat or choke back a tear? She shifted in the seat, balancing on the bench. Her legs were interlocked like a troubled stoic or stressed yoga instructor. She opened her mouth, but no words came out; just a quick exhalation of breath. Colin knew the way Kendra worked and that if he said anything or made the tiniest movement, he would never hear the thought forming on Kendra’s tongue.

He studied her features while waiting; the thin and maintained eyebrows, the eyeliner just resting on either eyelid, the rogue tint just barely visible along her cheek bone. Her eyes darted back and forth, never holding on an object long enough to focus.

“I honestly thought you wouldn’t come.” She traced her lower eyelid with the tip of her finger. The eyeliner smeared slightly. Even with the disruption of her makeup, the black smudge looked natural. Her eyes became a painting framed by a soft black boundary: it created a focus for the viewer. Show no weakness, Colin heard her voice echo through past memories, memories of walking without destination or worries. “How’s the girl?”

“What girl?” he said. He reached into his pocket for his box of cigarettes and a green lighter.

“You said you quit.”

“Four months ago,” he said. The flame danced in the wind. “Quitters never win.” The sun was setting; the horizon obscured the sun. “You gonna give me some shit about smoking now?”

“Lack of commitment.” Her eyes hardened glass again.

“Said the pot to the kettle.” The sun wasn’t the only red Colin saw. “What do you want from me?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

“Why now? You should be getting more than enough attention form the boy.”

“I broke up with Doug.” Colin was struck with a force and snapped upright. His face twisted.

“Why?”

“Why did you break up with Amy?”

“No, why am I here?” The horizon was cleared of the obtrusive sun. White pins adorned the sky. “You want sympathy? Empathy? Conformation?”

“No, I-,” her voice cut off. Her eyes flickered like the wings of an injured bird, scared and alone. She inhaled deeply and Colin could almost hear her count to ten in her mind. “I thought we could –”

“What, Pick up where we left?” Colin was a dragon, smoke pouring from his nostrils. “Too little too late. Two months is a long time.”

“What happened to you?” Kendra shook her head and tugged at her skirt. She released one leg from the tight knot of her position. Her foot met the ground, it fell as fast as lead.

“People change.” Colin stood. “You should be familiar with that.” He let the smoke escape his lips. The statement formed in the cloud, and they both let it linger until the wind swept it away.

"Bumblebee"

2008-01-29T13:04:00.000-08:00

“People change.” Colin punctuated his statement by standing. “You should be familiar with that.” He took off his hat and bowed slightly. He lit a cigarette and began to walk away from Kendra as a scorned friend. When he felt a safe distance away from her, he looked back. She sobbed into one hand while producing a box of cigarettes from the coach bag at her side. Hypocrite, he thought. Haw many times had he heard her sermon about the dangers of smoking? Surely a dozen.

His phone sang “Flight of the Bumblebee.” He reached for the source of the noise, and looked at the screen. An unfamiliar number appeared, but Colin was used to this. His new phone had approximately a quarter of the numbers saved when compared to his previous one. He hesitated to press the talk button, but curiosity got the better of him. He greeted the anonymous caller.

“Colin, man, you busy?” Colin thought about the voice and tried to place it to a face. Was it Todd? Dallas? Kevin? No, he sounds too nasal for any of them.

“Why, what’s up?” He considered asking who was on the other line, but pride kept him away from the question. His face contorted deep in thought, his eyebrows moved to touch each other. Was it Alex?

“Can you meet me at the pub?” It isn’t Chuck, Colin thought. Chuck doesn’t drink. He thought about the bars and the people he frequented them with. He could think of three bars and about seven people off the top of his head. He couldn’t force himself to ask which put, just as he couldn’t ask for the identity of the caller. Colin stalled with ‘ums’ and ‘uhhs.’ Not Pieter’s Pub, he thought. He hasn’t been there in years.

“Sure, I’ll be there in about ten.” He decided to go to Gene’s, his favorite bar, his home away from home. A shot of Jack Daniels would make him feel better after the bitter confrontation with Kendra, and he could get at least one more name in his phone. That is, if he picked the correct bar. He said goodbye to the caller and pocked his phone.

Colin played a game on the way to the bar: he tried to find a rainbow of colors within the makes. He spotted an orange Range Rover across the street, Yellow Jaguar running a stop sing, Blue Cavalier next to him. He couldn’t find a green car, but the red Kia Rio in front of Gene’s seemed familiar. He recognized the blue “Question Reality” sticker stuck in an awkward angle on his bumper, and when he approached the other side, he found a long scratch from a story involving a key and tequila. At least he was at the right bar, he thought.

An assortment of people populated the hall of neon lights and colored liquors. Colin recognized a handful of them, but wrote it off as regularing the spot. The sweet smell of booze and stale cigarettes almost overcame Colin, and he could feel himself swooning if he were more tired or already drunk: it smelled like home. He ordered two shots and a beer and spotted Todd across the room. He was resting his head on a fist, his elbow on the jukebox. He approached Todd after asking the bar tender to get another one ready. That’s right, Colin thought. It was Todd’s car.

Todd glanced over his shoulder towards Colin. When he was in range, Todd reached his hand around Colin’s waste and pulled him close, hanging on to a handful of his plain black tee-shirt. They embraced like brothers as Todd shouted over the B-52’s about how good it was to finally see him again. Colin knew that Todd was not the source of the phone call, but still was overjoyed to see him. Colin explained the situation of his new phone and lost numbers, and programmed Todd’s number in.

“Oh, hey, do you know whose number this is?” Colin recited the phone number to him. Todd repeated the number out loud and squinted, forcing the wrinkles in his forehead to make maps across his face. Todd pulled at his phone and began to press buttons. Colin brushed past him and pressed 8904 on the jukebox to place “Freebird” in the queue. “Well?” Colin pressed for information.

“Well what?” Todd closed his phone and clipped it back onto his belt.

“Whose number is it?” Colin tried to recall the timbre of the voice as it told him to meet at the ‘pub.’ Was this the right one? Was the caller watching him then? He scanned the room again.

“Did you use one of my credits?” Todd looked from the Jukebox to Colin. He looked annoyed.

“Freebird, man.” Colin’s grin stretched like a slack rope. He patted Todd’s back.

“Ass, I was gonna play that one last.” The song “Rock Lobster” ended, and shortly after a mandolin signaled the intro to an R.E.M. song. Colin shrugged and stepped through a small crowd of people encompassed by a small cloud of smoke. He placed a ten dollar bill on the counter and downed his third shot. He nodded a thank you and carried the pale green bottle back to Todd.

“So do you know whose number that was?” Colin stared at Todd’s eyes and thought that he could actually see gears turning past his pupils.

“Did they call you?” Sometimes Todd was just idiotic, thought Colin.

“How else would I have the number?” Todd either looked disappointed or disapproving. It was hard for Colin to decide which. “So you know who it was.”

Todd kept his eyes focused on the Jukebox. Colin began to feel the effects of the whiskey. Maybe it was just him wanting to be drunk. He read somewhere that a person’s mentality could affect the symptoms of drinking. He finished half of his beer and decided that mentally or not, he would be drunk shortly.

“Did you answer?” Todd made a selection on the jukebox and avoided Colin’s gaze. After his last selection, Todd abruptly stood straight up and headed to a close table, continuing his avoided stare. He looked around the room as Colin had when he first arrived.

“Yeah, he said to meet him here.”

“Here? And you didn’t ask who it was.” It was a statement, Colin knew that he disapproved. Colin finished what was left in his beer, and returned to the bar, exchanged the empty bottle for a new one. When he returned, Todd held his hand over his right eye, his fingertips just grazing the slight recede in his hair line.

“What’s the big deal? It’s just a phone call,” Colin said as he took a seat across from Todd. The comment must have struck a nerve with Todd. His head shot up and his fingers exposed his eyes. “What? How am I supposed to react to such a serious stare? You know who it was, just tell me.” Colin was getting frustrated and anxious.

“I didn’t even think he had your number. He must’ve gotten it from Kendra.” Todd was staring past him. Colin turned to see what Todd was looking at. Probably nothing, Colin thought. He folded his arms. The beer rested in his elbow like a breastfeeding infant.

“Kendra? What does she have to do with it?” Colin couldn’t think of anyone he knew through Kendra. She knew most of her friends through Colin.

“He said Gene’s?”

“He said ‘the pub.’ This is the first logical place I thought of.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew who the caller was. It was Doug, Kendra’s recent ex-boyfriend. Colin had only met him twice that he could remember. He thought he was finished with Kendra, at least for the night. “Who was it,” Colin demanded. Todd shook his head while Colin glared at him with a sobering intensity. He needed to hear it to be certain. He doubted himself. He didn’t want it to be true. The “Flight of the Bumblebees” pierced through “Freebird.” The screeching melody of his phone continued as Colin adjusted to have enough room to remove the phone. He was at the wrong bar, he knew that now. “It’s Doug, isn’t it.” Todd remained silent, staring at the table. Colin pressed the silence button and walked back to the bartender.

writing.

2008-01-22T21:48:00.001-08:00

I seem to have this problem. I cannot keep up with writing, no matter how much I want to.
I want to write more, I have so much to say; I just simply cannot put it into words.
And because of this, I am taking a class, on of my last four classes in the University of Pittsburgh. It intro to fiction writing, and I have my first assignment due next Tuesday. I'm very excited and apprehensive, because I both love and hate having writing projects due on certain dates. While it forces me to write, it also... well... forces me to write. I end up making characters I can't stand to be around, and I have them do things I don't like, but they talk well. I just don't like deadlines while simultaneously loving them.
They give me reason to write, but suck some creativity out of me.
So now I need a story about a person who has something the other person wants.
I'll post it here soon.

Nanowrimoing is hard....

2007-11-08T08:22:00.000-08:00

“So she told him that her name was Margaret, but he insisted to call her Maggie. She hated being called Maggie, and told Mr. Kaster every chance she had, which were few and far between. Margaret knew that he must have a reason to call her that horrid name after countless times of correcting Mr. Kaster.

“Still, she would see him often, and often he would incorrectly address her. Margaret knew she was abrasive, and did nothing to change it, except when he called her Maggie. Something about the nickname softened her, made her vulnerable. She loathed every second she spent with him, and attempted to keep as formal as she could, but he introduced her as Maggie to-”

“-This Story’s boring, and you sound like you’ve practiced it a million times.” Jon said. He was tired of the way Shannon would ramble on and on about stories. She had so many stories. Sometimes they were interesting, sometimes they had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Jon thought that she was scared of silence. He noticed that if a conversation lulled he could count on the familiar ‘so…’ which marked the beginning of her story. Sometimes they were genuine, and Jon could recount many entertaining stories that he could not determine if they were myths, urban legends, or personal accounts. He didn’t care all the time, but he wasn’t into her rehearsed stories. He scanned the page of his book for the word ‘copasetic’ and failed.

“Well what do you wanna talk about, Jon?” He kept his eyes on the book in front of him. Shannon felt the inside of her right palm and traced the lines in her skin. “Let me see your hands.”

“Damnit, Shannon. Why can’t we ever hang out in silence? Is it that fucking hard? Just don’t say anything. Here, try it.” Silence. She opened her mouth, but before a noise could squeak out Jon raised his hand with the index finger towards the ceiling. Jon kept his gaze in her direction and returned to the book when he was confident she would not say anything. He turned the page and scanned again, that time looking for the word ‘collection.’ He never read a book, but always looked for specific words, usually words that are not common in everyday stories or affected his general mood.

“So-“ Jon slammed his book closed. The bang halted any words that Shannon tried to continue with. He reached in his pocket and grabbed his pack of cigarettes with a book of matches folded into the front flap. He looked at her with his best portrayal of sarcasm.

“Please, tell me everything.” His stare was cold and unblinking. “What? Now you’re quiet. I’m listening. Tell me more about that bitch Maggie.”

“Her name is Margaret.”

“Whatever. She’s not even real.” She looked hurt.

“She’s not a bitch,” she mumbled under her breath.

“She’s not real!”

“How the fuck do you know?! You never even listen to my stories.” He listened to every word she had ever said to him. He always did. There were voices he could not ignore: his mother, his ex-significant other, and Shannon. He broke the line of vision connecting their eyes, took two cigarettes from his pack, and took the matchbook from the front of the pack. He struck one match and lit both cigarettes.

“Do you want one?” He handed her one of the cigarettes.

“I thought you were quitting.” He wanted to say something to the effect of ‘shut the fuck up,’ but he bit his lower lip instead. Shannon took the cigarette and rested it between her cherry red lips. Jon started to count the seconds before she spoke again. When he reached seven he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he jumped in his seat and turned to see who had arrived.

Xander towered over him and at his sight, he stood from the uncomfortable café seat. The wind blew through Xander’s stringy brown hair and despite how unattractive he seemed, he had the confidence of a model in a photo shoot. His clothes always matched and looked fantastic, as if a team searched his closet for the best possible outfit to complement the day’s weather. Today it was a flowing button-down shirt with a grey a-shirt underneath just barely hinting at his abdominal muscles. Jon extended his hand and Xander grasped it with fervor and excitement.

“Hi Xander,” Shannon said, trying to be coy and flirtatious. Jon thought that she came off as a shallow high school cheerleader adoring the quarterback. It made his stomach lurch. Xander blew her a kiss. Jon cocked his head and raised his eyebrows at her.

“What?” She scowled at him. Jon held fast his stare.

“Am I interrupting something?” Xander swayed on his feet: left to right, right to left. Jon looked up at him and smiled. He couldn’t help but be charmed by Xander. He tried to think of a time someone was angry or upset with Xander. He wondered if Xander had ever lost a fight, or if he had ever been in a fight.

“Caffeine. Anyone want some?” Jon stood and looked from Shannon to Xander, back again, and slowly walked away. He saw Xander slowly sit where he had just left, and turned his head so his periphery no longer contained Xander and Shannon.

The door to the coffee shop was heavy. “The Underscore” was written in bold letters across the full-length glass doors. When closed, the metal grates reminded Jon of a gate to the castle of espresso, the café was the moat filled with the watery ideas of the hipsters and business types. Jon was a bit of both, displayed by his worn suit and his 500 dollar un-tucked Italian shirt. In certain contexts it would seem like a paradox, but Jon portrayed both the urban professional and the poor artist he longed to be. The neon analog clock on the wall seemed stuck at ten minutes before ten.

“Morning, Jon.” Jon scanned his brain for the name of the coffee attendant. He remembered that it was an androgynous name, something like Jamie or Jessie. He felt foolish when he looked at the small piece of plastic that said “Ash” underneath “The Underscore.” He tried to not look obvious when he glanced at the name tag, but couldn’t help but see some disappointment in Ash’s eyes. Ash kept smiling. Jon knew what it was like to work in a place where smiling is mandatory. He knew how it felt when a client forgot a name, and how disappointed when people would address him as Joe, Jake, or waited until after he gave away his name to be addressed properly. Jon decided not to call him by name. Jon smiled in an apologetic way, slightly embarrassed.

“You making the drinks today?” Jon searched behind the counter for other workers. There were none behind the ancient espresso machine, and no one was found behind the trays of bagels and pastries.

“I’m the only one here. The other two bailed on me. Something about worker’s rights, but they’re just fucking me around. Some kind of birthday tradition.”

“It’s your birthday?” Jon checked the contents of his bag mentally, trying to figure out if he had a suitable present for a twenty-something male coffee shop worker.

“No, it’s Colin’s. That’s why he left. Took Shira with him. I think they went to see strippers or something. Bastards.” Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t think of one trinket in his bag that would seem acceptable as a birthday gift for Ash.

“At least you’re not too busy,” Jon looked around The Underscore, away from Ash with his head towards the cash register. There were only a handful of people sporadically placed around the tables. He saw Shannon through the window but couldn’t tell if Xander was still there. “And I’m gonna make it easy.” Ash glanced up at him. A modest smile overtook Ash’s face, but Jon overlooked it. “Just three medium coffees,” Jon requested

“How about two and a large? You always get a large.” Jon searched his pocket to see if he had enough cash. He did not want to use his card, but felt obliged to after Ash remembered his order. Jon could not help but looked surprised when the total came to two dollars. He knew that Ash had discounted his drinks, and once again remembered why he was a regular at certain places. He handed Ash a five dollar bill and smiled, thanking him. Jon returned to his friends outside.

I wrote something!!!

2007-09-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

Colin jammed his thumb into the bridge of his nose. The cigarette he held was above the brim of his hat, just out of his line of sight. He imagined the smoke billowing into an aura around. He thought of his aura as something an outsider would consider vile or disgusting; he found it comforting. It kept the unwelcome out and invited smokers or those who accept smoking in. He flicked the first cigarette from his recently purchased pack. The ash danced toward the ground.
"I don't understand why you do it." Kendra pulled a chair to the table where Colin was propping his head with a precarious hand.
"Do what?" He picked dirt out from his thumbnail with a burnt matchstick.
"Smoke. You look like you hate it." There was some pity in her eyes, he though. Maybe something else. He could not discern what the emotion was. He spun the shortening cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.
"Dunno. It's something to do until..." His voice trailed off. He took a sip from his coffee. Odd, he thought, it's cold and burnt. He wasn't sure how the coffee shop could create such polar opposites in a house-blend coffee.
"Until what?"
"Whatever." He felt as if her presence became an intervention for his problems rather than a conversation starter. He wanted her there, he just wanted her to be silent. He thought about a quote his friend would say, 'silence is golden: duct tape is silver.' He smirked and crushed the cigarette into the bench on which he was sitting.
"Fucking cancer sticks," she shook her head. He looked up at her
"Bitch."
"Well, it sure is nice to see you again too, Colin." She was thorough with her sarcasm experience. "I hope you know that you look miserable, and you smell like shit."
"I wasn't aware this was a black-tie invitation." He could play the sarcasm game, too. He jammed his palms into his eye sockets and took comfort in the blackness of closed and covered eyes. "Did you ask me here to tell me how shitty I appear?"
"No," she hesitated. "I-"
"What? wanna reconnect a bond you fucking broke off? Four months, and out of the blue, god damn it. What, are you getting married to that asshole? Let's just get this fucking over with." He never liked her indirect methods at a serious conversation.
"We broke up." She no longer looked at Colin.
"Congratulations. 'Bout time. So what the fuck do you want with me, Kendra?"
"Were you always this cold?" She folded her arms.
"So let me guess, you ran out of friends, broke up with the cause, and now you're attempting to reclaim the ones you forgot about." He could see a sting of pain in her eyes. He had hurt her and felt accomplishment. He saw the olive branch turning to regret.
"I thought he was why you stopped calling. Well, it's over."
"Great. I hope it all works out for you." His stare was hard.
"I thought we could work this out." She fumbled with the lapels on her coat.
"Why?"
"Because I still consider you my friend." He granted her a cynical laugh. "I still care about you, Colin." He could feel the anger filling the area that he guessed his heart was. She avoided his gaze.
"You don't even know me anymore." Her eyes glazed over. He saw red. He attempted to convince her that this was true. He attempted to convince himself that he didn't expect or invite this.
"Yes, I do." Her voice broke and cracked as she choked back tears. "You're Colin Redstun who would drag me out of my dorm room to make fun of the weird hat lady. You used to drunk dial me from frat parties when you got bored so we could go get pizza. We would spend all night talking about music and hidden meanings. I know he's in you somewhere." he could see that she tried her hardest to hold back tears. He tried his best to remain unfeeling, unflinching, and unmoved.

"Time is Industry" - chapter 1.

2007-07-16T01:56:00.000-07:00

-chapter 1.

"Leave your fears in the dark.
Choke them with your hands."
-"One By One" - Lola Ray
Show at 7:30 is what the fliers said. I decided to arrive at the venue around 3:00, wait around for them. Lola Ray's last show in Pittsburgh was roughly three years ago, and I was determined to show them a Pittsburgh welcome, even if I had to do it by myself.
Oddly, I have never been to Garfield Artworks. I did not know the set-up of the venue, and I did not know the neighborhood. All I had was a pack of cigarettes and two sharpies: black and silver. I found the space at 3:17.
At 5:42 I became discouraged. Maybe they already showed up, unpacked their shit and are self-touring Pittsburgh without me. I pace up and down the street, find the back of the entrance, counted my steps (113 towards Friendship and 119 the other way).
6:04: I found a rubber wine cork in a pole intended for a parking meter, wielding my black sharpie and altering the beige to black. I took my silver sharpie and created patterns and runes. I finished and jammed it between two bolts. It became a part of the pillar. I wondered if it would still be there the next day.
Then a van arrived. I recognized it, wondered if it recognized me.

Barista - Draft III

2007-04-26T13:29:00.001-07:00

Three men entered, grabbed their drinks, dropped their exact change on the counter, and sat down in their usual morning spots. Same shit different day, Summer thought. She often grew tired of the repetition of the morning rituals of Valentine, the older men with their New York Times. Decaf Latte talked about the great fate of his life, Americano said how Lucy was not ‘putting out’ anymore, and Mocha talked about rising air currents. From what little information she had of the men, she created intricate back-stories, marking key points in her mind by looking in the top left corner of the Black Bean where a small spider resided; she did not have the heart to remove it from his home. She faithfully made their drinks daily, but that Thursday she wanted to leave. She wanted something new. The men turned to their papers and read different sections after they finished talking. They grunted at an article here or there and glanced sideways at each other. She couldn’t make out the headlines, but heard Latte say something about ‘Those damn kids.” She stopped paying attention to them after they went silent.
Jon entered with his stained overalls. He looked at Summer who was now reading a book of poems she received monthly via New York University.
“Where’s my drink?” he said.
“Where’s my bike?” Summer’s Huffy had been in Jon’s shop for over a week now, and she tired of feeling immobile in Valentine. She didn’t have enough money for a car, and without her bike she was trapped between her apartment and the coffee shop, a six-block radius. Jon looked at her sadly, promised to fix it by the end of the week, and thanked her for making the drink before she began it. He walked towards the other end of the coffee shop and dropped the awkward grey bag he carried each morning. She shoved the silver pitcher of two percent milk under the spigot.
Her mind wandered while she prepared drinks, and she frequently looked outside. She focused on a mural of street graffiti and imagined the act as it took place. She saw the kids with hoods up as they shook their spray cans and sized up the wall. She looked down at her watch – 8:17 – and then outside again. A man was now blocking two of the three large nautical stars made of red spray paint. He chained a street bicycle to the outside of her shop and Summer could see that he was dirty. He looked like he had been riding his bicycle through the mud and his jeans exposed his flesh in various places. His hair was greasy and just past his ears. He kicked his bike and Summer could see him mouth something to himself. Summer wondered what he was doing in a city like Valentine. She finished Jon’s latte and made a frowning face with whipped cream. The stranger looked around thoughtfully at each of the people at the shop; all eyes on him. “Jon, yours is up.” Summer’s curiosity was somewhat piqued by the stranger. “You lost?” She tried to sound kind despite her bad mood. She knew her smile looked fake.
“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” He had a strong voice even though it trembled. She hung her head and wondered why anybody would use such a glass. She searched through the tray of mugs and failed to find an unstained one. She dusted it off and went through the tedious motions of preparing his order. She pumped the espresso grinds into the handle and pressed them into a compressed pad. She twisted the handle onto the machine and turned the switch that would allow the scalding water to churn through the espresso. She did this until the triple shot was complete. She glanced up at him every few seconds. Once or twice she caught him looking at her. She felt slightly embarrassed, her hair sloppily tossed into a bun, which rested on the highest point of her head. She only had enough time to put on mascara. She should have been more thorough, but reminded herself that she will probably never see this guy again.
“You got a bike shop?” he said.
No, not me personally, she thought. “Jon!” she yelled, getting his attention from across the room. “Wanna fix a bike for this guy?” Jon looked up, confused. He scratched his temple and shrugged. Worthless, Summer thought. “He’s the one you gotta talk to.” She couldn’t see what was wrong with his bike. She hoped that he wouldn’t become stranded in the same situation as her. He looked like he needed to go places; he was on a mission. His eyes were focused and pupils were small; a look of determination. Her head hurt. She needed another cigarette. She felt sick, and she was annoyed by each movement the man made. She knew the withdrawal signs of nicotine well.
He pulled a bag of change from his pocket and searched for the change to pay for his espresso. Summer hated when people paid in all change. She tapped her foot and rolled her fingers on the counter, staring intensely at the change. When he put the exact amount on the space in front of the register, she slowly pulled each coin into her hand and analyzed it like a primary school child learning how to count change for the first time. She raised a Susan B. Anthony dollar and looked at him. “I thought they stopped making these,” she said. Despite herself, she smiled.
“Keep it,” he said and looked through his bag for more change: three dimes, two quarters, one nickel, and 15 pennies. She thought he winked.
She continued looking towards the guy and created her own version of his quest. In her mind, he was a writer searching for his niche. He traveled the country and found characters everywhere he went. She thought of the Rock and Roll museum in Cleveland – where he actually talked with the members of the latest inductee – and wrote a story with excruciating detail of the arcs and arches in Cleveland; and the steel workers from Pittsburgh, telling him stories about Andrew Carnegie and how poorly they were treated, and him writing the story for a national magazine; and South Street in Philadelphia, where the hippies would smoke marijuana with him while he would wrote descriptive verse about the mosaics. There wasn’t even anything wrong with his bike, she thought, he just liked the atmosphere of cycle shops. She became bored with her own thoughts and went back to her poetry book. She was currently skimming over a pretentious prose about Central Park in November. She read the last line – “But central, no matter the weather” – and scoffed. She didn’t believe it, and she doubted the poet did either.
After every few lines of the poem she glanced up at the man. He stared wide-eyed in her direction. She noticed a small chunk of hair that looked like it had been pulled out, probably by his insane ex-girlfriend from Austrailla. They met in a coffee shop just like this one, she imagined. She shook her head in a failed attempt to clear her mind. She wondered if he winked at her or if he had something in his eye. Jon came to the counter.
“He looks like an interesting fellow, don’t you think?” he said.
“Go figure out what’s wrong. He’s a writer, maybe he’ll write a story about you,” Summer took her imagination and made it fact. Jon looked at her in an analytical way. She was not used to people looking past the girl working in a coffee shop. That’s all she was to most of Valentine. Jon’s eyes grew wider.
“You like him!” Jon said
“Shut up, he might hear you.” She glanced back at him. He was playing with his hair, unaware of conversation. “PS, you sound 12.”
“Wait, how do you know he’s a writer?” Summer looked confused. She didn’t know what Jon was talking about; she forgot she made it up. “A writer, how do you know? Did you ask him?”
She wanted to scream. She wanted Jon to leave her alone. “Go help him,” she said. Jon looked at here for a second and retreated towards the table. “And fix my bike while you’re at it.”

Summer thought about what Jon had said after he and the man left. She didn’t think she ‘liked’ him, she didn’t even know anything about him. She stared blankly at her book without reading any words. It was Misirlou at 11:00. She imagined the opening Pulp Fiction scene and closed her eyes. She recalled the actors and their lines as accurately as she could, but she could not remove the image of the new man from HonneyBunny. She liked that he was new and exciting to her, but she didn’t know anything about him save what she fabricated. “Something on your mind, Sum?” a voice startled her.
Dave looked at Summer with a mild concern. “Want some coffee, or are you just here wasting space again?” she said. Dave owned the place and made sure to stop in once a day and make sure all was going smoothly. He generally reeked like a bag of Doritos. Today was Cool Ranch.
“Watch your ‘tude,” he pointed a finger as if she was a young girl accused of breaking a vase. Summer was not in the mood to talk to him, especially about anything on her mind.
“The grinder jammed up again. And I broke some syrup bottles. There’s a stranger in town.” Dave seemed disinterested and walked behind the counter. His face was flushed and his hair matted down, drowned in gel. She wondered what he would look like as a greaser from the 50’s, and smiled to herself.
“Were you on time?” He talked to Al, she thought. She remembered the morning and how she rushed through all of her spots to be open before Al tried to walk through the door. She rolled from balls to heels of her shoes - still sticky from the spilled syrups – and tried not to fall asleep while he talked about economy and stocks. When this didn’t work, she dug her fingernails into her palms until he left. She showed her middle finger to Al’s back.
“I opened at six.” She wondered what would happen if she did not show up one day, and pictured Al looking into a dark coffee shop, not able to get his morning wake-me-up. She would be able to sleep in for once and curl up in the blankets on her bed made for a king. She thought about the regulars at seven and them leaning against the locked shop, newspapers under arms. She would take her time in the shower, clean every crevice of her body and properly wash, rinse, and repeat her hair. She could call her friend, Stacey, and take a day trip to The City. If her bike was fixed she could just ride all day, maybe to go to a coffee shop as a customer and not a barista. She could relate to the strife of a different small city and remove her own troubles for a while. She stared blankly ahead while she realized that she could take a day for herself. She planned to call off the next day.
“Whatcha reading?” She knew he didn’t care for poetry, let alone some piece about a ghost-town citizen looking for a way out. He wouldn’t be able to relate, she thought.
“I’m going to have a cigarette. Hey, do you care if I don’t come in tomorrow?” He didn’t seem to hear the second part as he walked towards the back room. “Asshole,” she said. She hoped he didn’t hear her.

Summer tired daily around 2:00. Her eyelids began to droop as her calves spiked pain throughout her body. She had been working long days since she started the job, and rarely cared. Without her bike, she was forced to walk the six blocks to the coffee shop. She had not called off since she started her job approximately a year and a half earlier. Her logic was that there was nothing else to do, so she might as well make money. She had no bike to get her anywhere anyways. Dave left to get her some lunch from the Chinese restaurant down the street, and she enjoyed her alone time once more, sharing the Black Bean with only customers, not superiors. The phone rang.
“He likes you too.” Jon said. Summer sighed at his fifth grade vocabulary.
“He told you that?” she was doubtful. “What’s his name?”
“Gotta go. Your bike will be ready tonight sometime. Maybe.” Click. She cursed and felt herself, blushing as she slammed the receiver down.
“You break that phone, you’re buying a new one.” Dave said. He returned with 2 brown bags, one with her name in bold black letters. She thanked him and sat at a table with her fourth cappuccino. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when he traveled; the rivers and monuments, the people and different styles.
She spent her last two hours in the Black Bean playing twenty questions with the customers. She had a difficult time getting past question five in each game, losing interest the closer it became to four o’ clock. Dave involved himself in the game, claiming to be a “thing.” Summer was going to guess Doritos on question one, but refrained herself until a customer finally guessed correctly: skyscraper.

Jones entered ten minutes before Summer was finished with her shift. He smiled and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses closer to the bridge of his nose and nodded. He went into the back room to prepare for his shift. Summer started packing up her things into her oversized purse – cigarettes, check; lighter, check; book, check. She was about to leave when she saw the cyclist again. She dropped her purse and knocked over a cup filled with coffee. “Back for more?” she said, grabbing a rag. The man smiled. Jones came out from the back room with the same black polo and slacks Summer was wearing. She felt slightly uncomfortable out of her own attire.
“Skyler,” he said. “My name is Skyler.” She nodded and smiled behind the espresso machine. She smiled, guarding her with the cappuccino machine. The hiss lingered in the air with a potent French Vanilla odor, no doubt still from the syrup she spilled, she thought. “I’m not coming in tomorrow,” she said to Jones. “Cover my shift. You owe me.” She sized him and finally looked into his eyes. He was about a foot taller than Summer, but he still shrunk back a little. “I might not come back.” She heard Jones mumble under his breath and scoff. She didn’t truly believe her last words, but after she heard Jones’ audible doubt, she considered it.
She set the midget mug in front of Skyler and claimed the vacant seat at the table. “Are you a writer?” she said. Skyler furrowed his brow. “Nevermind.” She took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her lips in the sensual way her mother taught her years ago.
“What’s your name?”
“What, Jon didn’t tell you?” The thought of something exhilarated her. She wanted to be with him. He was moving; he was fluid; he had no plans. She saw him glance at his watch, but she saw the second hand was not ticking. She fiddled with her watch under the table and eventually removed it. She didn’t want to be restricted by time, place and formality any more.
“What time is it?” she said.
“You from around here?” He looked distracted, and she began to smile: A small victory for her. He looked into her eyes, and she looked at his forehead, his drink, and the small spider. She looked at everything to avoid his eyes.
“Yeah,” she said. She now looked at the intricate patterns on the tabletop. She wondered why Dave chose these tables for the coffee house. She traced the swirling pattern with the tip of her middle finger.
“Where’re you from?” She looked into his eyes.
“ Around. I just came from Philly.”
“What brings you to Valentine?” She folded her hands on the table in front of her.
“I won a contest. On to New York.” She perked up. She wanted to go with him, but was not sure of how to approach the subject. She did not want to come off as needy or assertive. She looked at the spider and wandered what he would do. Skyler explained how he won, and that he needed to get to New York City by Friday afternoon. He had about 24 hours. “Jon said it’s only a couple hours riding. I’m gonna try to get there tonight sometime.” She drank the last of her Cappuccino.
“I gotta go,” Summer pulled her pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “You smoke?”
“I’m trying to quit.” He looked around and leaned closer into the table. “My prize is plus one. You should come with me.” She was taken aback and more surprised by that than his offer. “What do ya say?”
“I need to take care of some things,” she needed to change and collect some things from her apartment, her toothbrush, hairbrush, and some makeup if she were to go around with this random man. She thought briefly that she would look better in comparison, but that she would grab the beautification tools regardless. She grabbed her purse, made Skyler another triple shot, and said goodbye to Jones.
Outside, She lit a single match, grazed the flame over two cigarettes, and passed one to Skyler. He unchained his bike from the front of the shop and Summer saw that it would not be possible for two people to ride on it. “How am I gonna get there?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We need to stop by Jon’s.”`

Recreational Agruing

2007-04-17T14:52:00.000-07:00

“Why,” my most frequented word.
More than a, an, or the.
More than any article or farewell.

More than any greeting,
More than a yes or a no,
More than okay, all right, or cool,

Although I do enjoy a
Strategic and sarcastic “okay”
Punctuating a statement I do not believe.

But recreational argumentation
Is my favorite pastime
Because everything can be argued.

Everything should be argued,
Because without conflict,
How can one be sure of their opinions?

Some of the best conversations
Start with an opinion
And end with a why.

One time he said,
“I would think less of you
If you really did that”

I said, “Why?”
And he got pissed.
Although more frustrated than mad.

So I said the best response I know,
Other than a simple why:
“How mad are you right now?”

And he asked the validity of my questioning,
And I asked the depths of his opinion,
And he said ‘because,’ and I say ‘okay.’

That small word, just four letters, or two
Depending on the medium,
Is enough to throw someone into rage.

Someone once asked me,
‘Why do you always pick fights?’
And I said that it is fun.

And she said “Why?”
I looked deeply into her eyes,
She was using my argument, and I smiled.

I turned the question on her,
And she understood then:
Everyone’s opinion should be rooted.

Once somebody hung up their phone,
I was arguing to myself.
I threw their absent voice at the wall.

Nothing can make me angrier
Than somebody not listening to
My opinion or argument of their belief.

But I was talking about ‘why’
And the many times it helped me
And the countless times it helped others.

With just one question,
I have made one believe in God
And another not believe anymore.

But faith is difficult to argue,
Because it is such a blind belief
Which is rarely questioned.

People become uncomfortable,
Some people walk away,
And others tell me I will burn.

But if there is a hell,
I would take it to be a place
Where nothing is questioned.

Everything is taken as stated,
And nobody cares about what
They really think. So I argue.

'The City of Jeannette'

2007-04-13T17:42:00.000-07:00

our assignment was to write a poem about our hometown. We were supposed to use jobs and working class to define it. Here's mine:

The unwed, high school
Dropouts, mothers working day
Shift at a diner
Open only at day.

The Mom and Pop
Shop owners closing
Their doors, five P.M.
While antiques gather dust.

The Welfare and row houses
Drug dealings in West Jeannette,
Ending at a pizza shop.
Down each road, swag and pizza.

The closed glass factory,
The dirty glass windows,
Fading away and trying
To maintain some dignit.

The town down middle school.
No more learning here.
Now nothing but a vacant lot
In a dead, decaying city.

All I talk to want to flee the 'City,'
This ghost-town of strangers
growing stranger each year.
I dread to go back and

See my high school class,
The unwed dropout mothers
Working at the coffee house with
coffee the color and taste of shit.

Barista - Draft II

2007-04-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

The coffee grinder jammed, two bottles of syrup shattered on the floor, and she dropped a gallon of milk, which exploded, all before 5:30am. Summer had bad days, but she knew that waking up crying was a premonition, an omen of shit. She rushed through her morning duties - counted the register, filled the creamers, stocked the sugars, mopped the syrups and milk, fixed the grinder, brewed the coffee, unlocked the doors – to be open by six. She barely made it, but she unlocked the door seconds before Albert arrived. “Happy Thursday Al,” she said. She kept track of days by what Al was wearing in the morning. Today was his normal Thursday attire of black slacks and shirt with a purple tie. She hated Al. She hated everybody that day.
“Where’s my coffee?” he said. She hadn’t had an opportunity to have her morning coffee or cigarette, and Summer was irritated with his imposition. She rolled from balls to heels of her feet. Her shoes were sticky from walking through the syrups. “Bad morning?” Al knew how she felt, but kept a cold attitude. She feigned a smile and poured his coffee.
“Is it warm out yet?” she said, “It was freezing when I came in.” It was a beautiful morning. She hated talking to him but hated the awkward silence more. He stared out the window as he prepared the coffee. Summer usually had it ready before he arrived, two creams and three sugars. She did not enjoy it, but a simple act shortened their time together.
“You know what I think?” he said. She was not interested, she never was. He went on about the economy and New York City as if were deeply involved with what he was talking about. The only thing she thought about The City was that she would rather be there than in Valentine. Her head ached from lack of nicotine, her stomach churned from lack of caffeine. She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep awake. The next regular didn’t show up for another hour, and if not for Al, she would not open until seven. She tuned him out and poured her own coffee. She stared intently at Al and enjoyed the semi-silence of her mind. He yawned and wished Summer a better day. She showed her middle finger to his back.
Summer reached towards her bag and removed a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. She placed the box on the counter and walked outside when she was sure Al would no longer be in her line of sight. At least she could get a cigarette in before the other regulars arrived, she hoped.
Outside, she compulsively checked her watch and glanced up and down the street. She did not want the next patron to see that she had left the store unattended. She disliked the job, but needed it to pay her rent. She stomped the butt out and returned to the Black Bean. She should quit smoking, she thought. She listened for the music and remembered that she needed to turn on the radio. The same surf rock station played Beach Boys and Dick Dale everyday. She groaned while slowly twisting the knob allowing the music to flow through the speakers. Each day was the same to her, save the random person who needed a break from the New Jersey Turnpike.

After her cigarette, she began her morning cappuccino: three shots of espresso and skim milk. She continued to check her watch every five minutes until 6:55 when she walked towards the espresso machine to prepare for the regulars at seven. She checked the list of drinks in her mind: Decaf Latte with two percent milk, an Americano, and skim mocha with whipped cream. She shook her head each time she put whipped cream on a drink made with skim milk or made the Latte with decaffeinated beans: they seemed like simple paradoxes to her.
The three men entered, grabbed their drinks, put their exact change on the counter, and sat down in their usual morning spots. Same shit different day, Summer thought. She often grew tired of the repetition of the morning rituals of Valentine, the older men with their New York Times. Decaf Latte talked about the great fate of his life, Americano said how Lucy was not ‘putting out’ anymore, and Mocha talked about rising air currents. From what little information she had of the men, she created intricate back-stories, marking key points in her mind by looking in the top left corner of the Black Bean where a small spider resided; she did not have the heart to remove it from his home. Sometimes she enjoyed eavesdropping on the patrons and listen when they waxed philosophic, complained about their wives, or talked about the weather. That Thursday she wanted to leave them all behind and find something new. After they finished talking, the men turned to their papers and read different sections. She stopped paying attention to them after they went silent.
Jon entered with his stained overalls. He looked at Summer who was now reading a book of poems she received monthly via New York University. “Where’s my drink?” She looked up.
“Where’s my bike?” Summer’s Huffy had been in Jon’s shop for over a week now, and she tired of feeling immobile in Valentine. She didn’t have enough money for a car, and without her bike she was trapped between her apartment and the coffee shop. Jon looked at her sadly, promised to fix it by the end of the week, and thanked her for making the drink before she began it. He walked towards the other end of the coffee shop and dropped the bag he carried every morning. She shoved the silver pitcher of two percent milk under the spigot.
Her mind wondered while she prepared drinks, and she frequently looked outside. She looked down at her watch and then outside again. This time somebody was there, somebody she had never seen before. He chained a street bicycle to the outside of her shop and Summer could see that he was dirty. He looked like he had been riding his bicycle through the mud and his jeans exposed his flesh in various places. His hair was greasy and just past his ears. He kicked his bike and Summer could see him mouth something to himself. She finished Jon’s latte and made a frowning face with whipped cream. The stranger looked around thoughtfully at each of the people at the shop; all eyes on him. “Jon, yours is up.” Summer’s curiosity was somewhat piqued by the stranger. “You lost?” She tried to sound kind despite her bad mood. She forced a smile, and by the way the corners of her mouth felt she knew it looked fake.
“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” He had a strong voice even though it trembled. She hung her head and wondered why anybody would use such a thing. She searched through the try of mugs and failed to find an unstained one. She went through the tedious motions. She pumped the espresso grinds into the handle and pressed them into a compressed pad. She twisted the handle onto the machine and turned the switch that would allow the scalding water to churn through the espresso. She did this until the triple shot was complete. She glanced up at him every few seconds. Once or twice she caught him looking at her. “You got a bike shop?” He broke the silence.
No, not me personally, she thought. “Jon!” she yelled, getting his attention from across the room. “Wanna fix a bike for this guy?” Jon looked up from his morning with a confused look. He scratched his temple and shrugged. Worthless, Summer thought. “He’s the one you gotta talk to.” She couldn’t see what was wrong with his bike. She wetted her lips in deep thought and hoped that he wouldn’t become stranded in the same situation as her. He looked like he needed to go places; he was on a mission. His eyes were focused and pupils were small; the look of determination. Her headache plagued her again. She needed another cigarette. The man pulled a bag of change from his pocket and searched for the change to pay for his espresso. Summer hated when people paid in all change. She tapped her foot and rolled her fingers on the counter, staring intensely at the change. When he put the exact amount on the space in front of the register, she slowly pulled each coin into her hand and analyzed it like a primary school child learning how to count change for the first time. She saw him wink.
She continued looking towards the interloper and created her own version of his quest. In her mind, he was a writer searching for his niche. He traveled the country and found characters everywhere he went. There wasn’t even anything wrong with his bike, she thought, he just liked the atmosphere of cycle shops. She became bored with her own thoughts and went back to her poetry book. She was currently skimming over a pretentious prose about Central Park in November. She read the last line – But central, no matter the weather – and scoffed.
After every few lines of the poem she glanced up at the man. He stared wide-eyed in her direction. She wondered if he winked at her or if he had something in his eye. Jon came to the counter. “He looks like an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”
“Go figure out what’s wrong. He’s a writer, maybe he’ll write a story about you,” Summer took her imagination and made it fact. Jon looked at her in an analytical way. She was not used to people looking past the girl working in a coffee shop. That’s all she was to most of Valentine. Jon’s eyes grew wider.
“You like him!” Jon said
“Shut up, he might hear you.”
“Wait, how do you know he’s a writer?” Summer looked confused. She didn’t know what Jon was talking about; she forgot she made it up. “A writer, how do you know? Did you ask him?”
She wanted to scream. She wanted Jon to leave her alone. “Go help him.” She said. Jon looked at here for a second and retreated towards the table. “And fix my bike while you’re at it.”

Summer thought about what Jon had said after he and the man left. She didn’t think she liked him, she didn’t even know anything about him. She stared blankly at her book without reading any words. It was Misirlou at 11:00. She imagined the opening Pulp Fiction scene and closed her eyes. She imagined the lines as accurately as she could, but she could not remove the thought of the new man from her mind. She liked that he was new and exciting to her, but she didn’t know anything about him save what she fabricated. “Something on your mind, Sum?” a voice from above broke her train of thought.
Dave looked at Summer with a mild concern. “Want some coffee, or are you just here wasting space again?” Dave owned the place and made sure to stop in once a day and make sure all was going smoothly. He generally reeked like a bag of Doritos. Today was Cool Ranch.
“Watch your ‘tude,” he pointed a finger as if she was a young girl accused of breaking a vase. Summer was not in the mood to talk to him, especially about anything on her mind.
“The grinder jammed up again. And I broke some syrup bottles. There’s a stranger in town.” Dave seemed disinterested and walked behind the counter. His face was flushed and his hair matted down, drowned in gel. She wondered what he would look like as a greaser from the 50’s, and smiled to herself.
“Were you on time?” He talked to Al, she thought.
“I opened at six.” She wondered what would happen if she did not show up one day, and pictured Al looking into a dark coffee shop, not able to get his morning wake-me-up. She would be able to sleep in for once and curl up in the blankets on her bed made for a king. She thought about the regulars at seven and them leaning against the locked shop, newspapers under arms. She would take her time in the shower, wash every crevice off her body and properly wash, rinse, and repeat her hair. If her bike was fixed she could just ride all day, maybe to go to a coffee shop as a customer and not a barista. She could relate to the strife of a different small city and remove her own troubles for a while. She stared blankly ahead while she realized that she could take a day for herself. She planned to call off the next day.
“Whatcha reading?” She knew he didn’t care for poetry, let alone some piece about a ghost-town citizen looking for a way out. He wouldn’t be able to relate, she thought.
“I’m going to have a cigarette. Hey, do you care if I don’t come in tomorrow?” He didn’t seem to hear the second part as he walked towards the back room. “Asshole,” she said. She hoped he didn’t hear her.
Summer tired daily around 2:00. Her eyelids began to droop as her calves spiked pain throughout her body. She had been working long days since she started the job, and rarely cared. Without her bike, she was forced to walk the six blocks to the coffee shop. She had not called off since she started her job approximately a year and a half earlier. Her logic was that there was nothing else to do, so she might as well make money. She had no bike to get her anywhere anyways. Dave left to get her some lunch from the Chinese restaurant down the street, and she enjoyed her alone time once more, sharing the Black Bean with only customers, not superiors.
Her poor mood lifted as the day went on. She was almost happy again, her headache finally gone. She forgot there was a phone until it rang. She picked up the receiver to hear Jon’s voice.
“He likes you too.” Jon prodded into her business all-too-often.
“He told you that?” she was doubtful.
“He’s not a writer.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gotta go. Your bike will be ready tonight sometime.” Click. She cursed and felt herself blushing as she slammed the receiver down. Dave came back with 2 brown bags, one with her name in bold black letters. She thanked him and sat at a table with her fourth cappuccino. After noon, the minutes dragged, the seconds felt like minutes; the minutes were hours. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when he traveled.
She spent her last two hours in the Black Bean playing twenty questions with the customers. She had a difficult time getting past question five in each game, losing interest the closer it became to four. Dave involved himself into the game, claiming to be a “thing.” Summer was going to guess Doritos on question one, but refrained herself until a customer finally guessed correctly: skyscraper.

Jones entered ten minutes before Summer was finished with her shift. He smiled and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses closer to the bridge of his nose and nodded. He went into the back room to prepare for his shift. Summer started packing up her things into her oversized purse. She was about to leave when she saw the cyclist again. She dropped everything. “Back for more, stranger?” Jones came out from the back room with the same black polo and slacks Summer was wearing. She felt slightly uncomfortable out of her own attire.
“Skyler,” he said. “My name is Skyler.” She nodded and smiled behind the espresso machine. She hid her smile from everything except his espresso and her cappuccino. The hiss lingered in the air with a potent French Vanilla odor, no doubt still from the syrup she spilled, she thought. “I’m not coming in tomorrow,” she said to Jones. “Cover my shift. You owe me.” She stared holes through him and finally looked into his eyes. “I might not come back.” She heard Jones scoff and mumble under his breath. She was confident that she would be back, but Jones’ audible doubt that she could leave without remorse reminded her to contact some old friends and pull more favors.
She set the midget mug in front of Skyler and claimed the vacant seat at the table. “Are you a writer?” she said. Skyler furrowed his brow. “Nevermind.” She took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her lips in the sensual way her mother taught her years ago.
“What’s your name?” He knew it was Summer, she thought. Jon was sure to have told him. She unbuttoned the bottom button of her polo. Maybe Jon was right; maybe she did like him. The thought of something exhilarated her. She wanted to be with him. He was moving; he was fluid; he had no plans. She saw him glance at his watch, but she saw the second hand was not ticking. She fiddled with her timepiece under the table and eventually removed it. She didn’t want to be restricted by time, place and formality any more. She wanted out of Valentine, Skyler could help her.

Response

2007-04-02T22:38:00.000-07:00

"I was really intrigued by this one for several reasons. The main one being the meaning of the lines "Connor sang him a song about Calendars. Alex was unsung." I'm not entirely sure what it is you're getting at there, but felt it was important to a deeper sense of the character's feelings. It could be that it's just an allusion that I don't get (which the capitalization of "Calenders" suggests), but either way, I wondered what you meant by being unsung. Most people never have songs written about them, so the literal meaning doesn't fit; all I could make of it was that he's upset over unnoticed/unrequited love or interest, but your characters tend to be a little more depth that than. Plus, from the quirky wording, I'm led to believe it was a very carefully-chosen pair of sentences. Anyway, I enjoyed the reading, as always. Keep it up. :)"

I will respond per sentence. Not really, but I'll try.

Thank you. I like that line, it's why I started (ended, really) the story by saying that. I say ended because originally this was a shallow story about a boy who was sad, and this was inspired by the song "The Calendar Hung Itself" by Bright Eyes (lead singer Connor Oberst: hence the Conner singing him a song). I was told that some of the most interesting stories begin at the last line, and this is where I started this one. I learned more about Alex in the few lines I posted than I knew through an entire story. Next, I might have to look for a different meaning of Unsung. I was using it to mean that nothing ever turns out as he hopes, he is a tragic character in that aspect. But I want him to be an unknown hero. An unsung hero, if you will. Maybe I will change it to "His song was unsung" or "His scenario was unsung" or something to that effect.
I'm writing this in 3rd person with an obvious lens of Alex, so I'm trying to go as deep into his mind without going into 1st. He believes that he is unsung, as in the literal definition. So by him saying (or thinking) that he is unsung, he is allowing the reader to know that he feels that he does not get the credit he deserves. It was very carefully chosen, and I had a difficult time following it up. I feel like it tells a lot about the character; however, I'm not sure (judging by your response) that I portrayed it in the correct light. I'll try to re-work it. Thank you for the input:) And I will.

Short* Fiction

2007-03-31T13:24:00.000-07:00

Alex watched the couple walk off. He jammed the headphones deeper into his ears and pivoted on his right foot. A flash of white heat crossed his eyes, the iris deepened in blue. He looked back and regretted it immediately: they were kissing not 20 feet away from where they parted ways. He wondered how [name] could do this to him, how it all could happen so soon. He focused on a small rock in his way and kicked it further down his path. He concentrated on the continual kicking until the couple was out of his view. Connor sang him a song about Calendars. Alex was unsung.
He bit his upper lip and then his lower, almost drawing blood. He felt sick and pumped his hands in and out of fists, trying to catch his breath. He was involuntarily running. He didn't know where he was going; his feet led the way. His run changed to sprint when he realized his pace. He was moving too fast to see the man turning the corner, and grazed his arm. Alex lost balance, lost control, and lost [name]. He looked towards the man with whom he just collided. He noticed papers strewn across the sidewalk. Alex wondered what they were, with important crests and raised print. Official, he thought. "Sorry," Alex was sorry about a lot of things, but running into that man was not one of them.

I feel like writing fiction

2007-03-17T18:06:00.000-07:00

Susan smoked in the shower the morning of December third. She usually thought it to be a paradox, smoking while cleaning herslef. That Wednesday, she smelled the citrus of her body wash with a certain clairty she never had, she half understood why she could smell the bright scent. She was so used to the stink of the smoke that the soap smelled sweet and welcoming.
She towled herself and smiled in the mirror. She felt awake and refreashed.

Work in progress: The Barista

2007-03-14T22:10:00.001-07:00

The coffee grinder jammed, two bottles of syrup were shattered on the floor, and she dropped a gallon of milk before 5:30am. Summer had bad days, but she knew that waking up crying was a premonition of what would follow. She rushed through her morning process so she could be open by six: count the register, fill the creamers, stock the sugars, mop the syrups and milk, fix the grinder, brew the coffee, unlock the doors. She barely made it, but she unlocked the door seconds before Albert arrived. “Al,” she said. “Happy Thursday,” She kept track of days by what Al was wearing in the morning. Today was his normal Thursday attire of black slacks and shirt with a purple tie. She hated Al. She hated everybody that day.

“Where’s my coffee?” he said. She didn’t have an opportunity to have her morning coffee or cigarette. Summer was irritated with his imposition. She rolled from balls to heels of her feet. Her shoes were sticky from walking through the syrups. “Bad morning?” Al knew how she felt, but kept a cold attitude. She feigned a smile and poured his coffee.

“Is it warm out yet? It was freezing when I came in.” It was a beautiful morning. She hated talking to him but hated the awkward silence more. He stared out the window as he prepared the coffee. Summer usually had it ready before he arrived, two creams and three sugars. She did not enjoy it, but a simple act shortened their time together.

“You know what I think?” He went on rants like this, she remembered. She didn’t care, she never did. He went on about the economy and New York City as if she cared. The only thing she thought about The City was that she would rather be there than in Valentine. Her head ached from lack of nicotine, her stomach churned from lack of caffeine. She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep awake. The next regular didn’t show up for another hour, and if not for Al, she would not open until seven. She tuned him out and sipped her coffee. She stared intently at Al and enjoyed the semi-silence of her mind. He yawned and wished Summer a better day. She showed her middle finger to his back.

Summer reached towards her bag and removed a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. She placed the box on the counter and walked outside when she was sure Al would no longer be in her line of sight. At least she could get a cigarette in before the other regulars arrived.

Outside, she compulsively checked her watch and glanced up and down the street. She did not want the next patron to see that she had left the store unattended. She disliked the job, but needed it to pay her rent. She stomped the butt out and returned to the Black Bean. She should quit smoking, she thought. She listened for the music and remembered that she needed to turn on the radio. The same soft rock station every day annoyed, and the tediousness of the songs frustrated her. Each day was the same to her, save the random person who needed a break from the New Jersey Turnpike.

After her cigarette, she began her morning cappuccino: three shots of espresso and skim milk. She continued to check her watch every five minutes until 6:55 when she walked towards the espresso machine to prepare for the crowd that showed up every morning at seven. She checked the list of drinks in her mind: Decaf Latte with two percent milk, an Americano, and skim mocha with whipped cream. She shook her head each time she put whipped cream on a drink made with skim milk or made the Latte with decaffeinated beans: they seemed like simple paradoxes to her.

The three men entered, grabbed their drinks, put their exact change on the counter, and sat down in their usual morning routine. Same shit different day, Summer thought. She often grew tired of the repetition of the morning rituals of Valentine, the older men with their New York Times. Sometimes she enjoyed eavesdropping on the patrons and listen when they waxed philosophy, complained about their wives, or talked about the weather. That Thursday she wanted to leave them all behind and find something new. After they finished talking, the men turned to their papers and read different sections. She stopped paying attention to them after they went silent.

Jon entered with his stained overalls. He looked at Summer who was now reading a book of poems she received monthly via New York University. “Where’s my drink?” She looked up.

“Where’s my bike?” Summer’s Huffy had been at Jon’s bike shop for over a month now, and she tired of feeling immobile in Valentine. She didn’t have enough money for a car, and without her bike she was trapped between her apartment and the coffee shop. Jon looked at her sadly, promised to fix it by the end of the week, and thanked her for making the drink before she began it. He walked towards the other end of the coffee shop and dropped the bag he carried every morning. She shoved the silver pitcher of two percent milk under the spigot.

Her mind would often wonder while she prepared drinks, and she frequently looked outside. She looked down at her watch and then outside again. This time somebody was there, somebody she had never seen before. He chained a street bicycle to the outside of her shop and Summer could see that he was dirty and distraught. He looked like he had been riding his bicycle through the mud and his jeans exposed his flesh in various places. His hair was greasy and just past his ears. He kicked his bike and Summer could see him mouth something to himself. She finished Jon’s latte and made a frowning face with whipped cream. The jingle of loose change heralded his arrival. The stranger looked around thoughtfully at each of the people at the shop; all eyes on him. “Jon, yours is up.” Summer was disinterested in his arrival. “You lost?” She tried to sound kind despite her bad mood.

“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” He had a strong voice even though it trembled. She hung her head and wondered why anybody would use such a thing. She searched through the try of mugs and failed to find an unstained one. She went through the tedious motions. She pumped the espresso grinds into the handle and pressed them into a compressed pad. She twisted the handle onto the machine and turned the switch that would allow the scalding water to churn through the espresso. She did this until the triple shot was complete. She glanced up at him every few seconds. Once or twice she caught him looking at her. “You got a bike shop?”

No, not me personally, she thought. “Jon!” she yelled, getting the man’s attention from across the room. “When are you gonna open?” Jon looked up from his morning with a confused look. He scratched his temple and shrugged. Worthless, Summer thought. “He’s the one you gotta talk to,” She couldn’t see what was wrong with his bike. She wetted her lips in deep thought and hoped that he wouldn’t become stranded in the same situation as her. He looked like he needed to go places; he was on a mission. Her headache plagued her again. She needed a cigarette. The man pulled a bag of change from his pocket and searched for the change to pay for his espresso. Summer hated when people paid in all change, but at least this man stirred up her usual routine. She saw him wink.

She continued looking towards the interloper and created her own version of his quest. In her mind, he was a writer searching for his niche. He traveled the country and found characters everywhere he went. There wasn’t even anything wrong with his bike, she thought, he just liked the atmosphere of cycle shops. She became bored with her own thoughts and went back to her poetry book.

After every few lines of the poem she glanced up at the man. He stared wide-eyed in her direction. She wondered if he winked at her or if he had something in his eye. Jon came to the counter. “He looks like an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

“Go figure out what’s wrong. He’s a writer, maybe he’ll write a story about you,” Summer took her imagination and made it fact. Jon looked at her in an analytical way. She was not used to people looking past the girl working in a coffee shop. That’s all she was to most of Valentine. His eyes grew as an epiphany struck.

“You like him!” Jon said. “Wait, how do you know he’s a writer?” Summer looked confused. She didn’t know what Jon was talking about; she forgot she made it up. “A writer, how do you know? Did you ask him?”

She wanted to scream. She wanted Jon to leave her alone. “Go help him.” She said. Jon looked at here for a second and retreated towards the table. “And fix my bike while you’re at it.”

Summer thought about what Jon had said after he and the man left. She didn’t think she liked him, she didn’t even know anything about him. She stared blankly at her book without reading any words. It was 11:00 and she could not cease the thought of the new man. He was just somebody who jarred her regimented schedule of events. She liked that about him, but she didn’t know anything about him save what she fabricated. “Something on your mind, Sum?” a voice from above broke her train of thought.

Dave looked at Summer with a mild concern. “Want some coffee, or are you just here wasting space again?” Dave owned the place and made sure to stop in once a day and make sure all was going smoothly. He generally reeked like a bag of Doritos. Today was Cool Ranch.

“Watch your ‘tude,” he pointed a finger as if she was a young girl accused of breaking a vase. Summer was not in the mood to talk to him, especially about anything on her mind.

“The grinder jammed up again. And I broke some syrup bottles. There’s a stranger in town.” Dave seemed disinterested and walked behind the counter. His face was flushed and his hair matted down, drowned in gel. She wondered what he would look like as a greaser from the 50’s, and smiled to herself.

“Were you on time?” He talked to Al, she thought.

“I opened at six.” She wondered what would happen if she did not show up one day, and pictured Al looking into a dark coffee shop, not able to get his morning wake-me-up. She planned on calling off the next day.

“Whatcha reading?” She knew he didn’t care for poetry, let alone some piece about a ghost-town citizen looking for a way out. He wouldn’t be able to relate, she thought.

“I’m going to have a cigarette. Hey, do you care if I don’t come in tomorrow?” He didn’t seem to hear the second part as he walked towards the back room. “Asshole,” she said. She hoped he didn’t hear her.

Summer always tired around 2:00, and today was no different. She had been working long days since she started the job, and rarely cared. Her logic was that there was nothing else to do, so she might as well make money. She had no bike to get her anywhere anyways. Dave left to get her some lunch from the restaurant down the street, and she enjoyed her alone time once more, sharing the Black Bean with only customers, not superiors.

Her poor mood lifted as the day went on. She was almost happy again, her headache finally gone. She forgot there was a phone until it rang. She picked up the receiver to hear Jon’s voice.
“He likes you too.” Jon prodded into her business all-too-often.
“He told you that,” she was doubtful.

“He’s not a writer.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gotta go.” Click. She cursed and felt herself blushing. Dave came back with 2 brown bags, one with her name in bold black letters. She thanked him and sat at a table with her fourth cappuccino. After 12, the minutes dragged on. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when traveled.

She spent her last two hours in the Black Bean playing twenty questions with the customers. Just another day after all, she thought.

Jones entered ten minutes before Summer was finished with her shift. She started packing up her things into her oversized purse. She was about to leave when she saw him again. “Back for more, stranger.” Jones came out from the back room with the same black polo and slacks Summer was wearing. She felt slightly uncomfortable out of her own attire.

“Skyler,” he said. “My name is Skyler.” She nodded and smiled behind the espresso machine. She hid her smile from everything except his espresso and her cappuccino. The hiss lingered in the air with a potent French Vanilla odor. “I’m not coming in tomorrow,” she said to Jones. “Cover my shift. You own me.” She stared holes through him and finally looked into his eyes. “I may never come back.”

She set the midget mug in front of Skyler and claimed the vacant seat at the table. “Are you a writer?” she said. Skyler furrowed his brow. “Nevermind.” She took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her lips in the sensual way her mother taught her years ago.

“What’s your name?” He knew it was Summer, she thought. Jon was sure to have told him. She unbuttoned the bottom button of her polo. Jon was right; she did like him. The thought of something exhilarated her. She wanted to be with him. He was moving; he was fluid; he had no plans. She saw him glance at his watch, but she saw the second hand was not ticking. She fiddled with her’s under the table and eventually removed it. She didn’t want to be restricted by time, place and formality any more. She wanted out of Valentine, Skyler could help her.

“Where to?” she was ready to invite herself along after he answered. She didn’t care where, she didn’t care when, the sooner the better. He stumbled around “um-s” and “uh-s” finally allowing the information: New York City.

“I have to go.” He rose suddenly, holding out his hand like an awkward school boy bidding adieu to his first girlfriend. The gesture confused her, but she obliged. “I have to get there by tomorrow.”

“Will you be okay?” He was already gone. She watched the only change of pace walk towards the door. “Wait,” she tried to call to him. He walked his bike out of her view while she reclaimed her bag from the ground. She was too late. “Take me with you.”

Story process.

2007-03-04T18:51:00.000-08:00

What happens?
I need a story. I wrote about a lighter, and I wrote about a cyclist. Where do I go from here?
It needs to be longer, and I need a more solid story.
I want to take the mundane and make it amazing. Awesome, if you will.
Maybe a TV junkie cannot sit in his favorite chair anymore.
Maybe a Writer can't get his story... cliche.
Anyways, this show is really annoying. I can't take it.
fuck this.
fuck the paper.

I want this to come... I want to figure out what it is about.
I need figure this out. figure out what happens.
What happens?
Who is this?
Who is my character?
Where does he go?
What's going on?
?!
I'll just make squares with my mouse.

Maybe a desperate guy finds someone on the internet.
My desktop changes.
The squares transform into imperfect circles.
Whatever.
I'll figure it out.

"Cyclist"

2007-03-01T10:22:00.000-08:00

The tire exploded half a mile outside of Valentine, New Jersey. Skyler stepped over the frame of his ten-speed Schwinn and looked at the line created on the roadside behind him. The New Jersey turnpike was not always nice to him. He reached down, sore from riding, and gathered the rubber remains of his broken bicycle. The sun was creeping over the horizon. He needed to find a bike shop. His solid black tee shirt had a brown stripe imposed over his spine from riding in the mud. He started walking across the highway; nobody was around for as far as he could see. The median was taller than he thought and he struggled lifting his weathered bicycle over the stone separation.

He wondered what the weekend had in store for him, ignoring the fact that his tire was in ruins. He reached into his pocket to feel the cold change contained in the confines of his faded blue jeans. He figured that he had about fifteen dollars in quarters, nickels, and dimes. He had more quarters before he made the phone call back in Philadelphia. The Crystal Water Company had been giving away all expenses paid trips for a weekend in New York City. He finally heard the radio station transmit the message and was the 123^rd caller. Skyler stayed on the pay phone to figure out what he had to do in order to claim his prize. He listened to an automated voice that told him ‘fun facts’ about the radio stations under Crystal Water. After he heard “104.3, The Edge, is your best choice for underground hip-hop” for the fourth time, he realized that they were neither facts nor fun: Just useless numbers and statistics. But those numbers gave him an introduction to New York City. He finally left Philadelphia after two years of squatting and finding the odd job here or there. He was on a new road.

He walked away from the highway with his bicycle over his shoulder. He was used to the uneven weight and continued on the unbeaten trail towards the last exit he saw: Valentine. The sun was up and forcing the sweat from his brow to drip into his eyelids. For the first time in hours he realized that he was struggling to keep his eyelids from meeting. He had been riding for miles and did not pause since the rest stop where he got a bag of Funyuns and a coffee from the Java Cannon. Caffeine: his vice, his crutch, his anchor.

The vague grey shapes expanded to construct the city limits of Valentine. Skyler pressed the left palm to his temple and prayed to himself that there was a tire there for him. He glared towards the raging star above him wondering if a bike shop would be open at this hour. 8AM if he had to guess. He glanced towards his silver watch; the hands had stopped at approximately a quarter after two, fall 1999.

Caffeine withdrawal was something he still was not accustomed to. He watched the numbers on Main Street increase. 153, 157, 159. “Where the fuck is 155?” he said, startling himself in the quiet of the city. He looked across the street. Right above the door marked number 214 hung bold letters spelling out “Black Bean” glowing with neon and chrome. A picture of coffee beans cascaded over where the sign seemed to stop. He has seen worse names in his time. “Kickin' Koffee” and the ironically named “One Stop Grind Shop,” were names that came to mind. He chained his wreckage of a bike to the outside of the shop. “They’d better have espresso.”

He walked through the door and inhaled the sweet aroma of Colombian exports. The screeching of steam penetrating milk blocked out the music wafting under this hiss of the espresso machine. He located the source of music after some searching through the room. The speakers hung loosely above the coffee bar, probably an afterthought. Throughout the bar, he could see a handful of people absorbed in their morning routines. He walked towards the register, scanning the room for a menu. “Just the basics:” a sign hanging next to a mimic of the billboard above the front entrance. “Jon, yours is up,” said the woman behind the counter. Her voice rang through his ears and drowned the music with more ease than the silver pitcher containing two percent milk, injected with gaseous water.

“You lost stranger?” It wasn’t as rude as he had heard in other small towns. The right side of her mouth tilted upwards, as if she were struggling not to smile.

“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” She nodded. Pump, press, twist, turn. The hot water churned through the espresso grinds. She had short hair, red as the last sunset he saw over the City of Brotherly Love. She poured the brown liquid into a stained ceramic mug. “You got a bike shop?” She looked up from the mechanism.

“Jon,” she yelled across the room. Skyler turned to get a good look at the addressed man. “When are you gonna open?” Jon was wearing oil-stained overalls and his face looked weathered. He shrugged and returned to his latte. “He’s the one you gotta talk to. He runs the shop down the street.” She licked her lips. Skyler was not sure if she did this as a way to arouse him or because her lips were dry. Regardless, he was aroused. He nodded and took his mug, shifting his pants and letting his mind wander. Broken mugs and spilled syrups raged through his mind as he rested in a chair. He drank half of his espresso in one gulp and stared at the girl behind the counter. Her pink nose was now buried in a book he could not make out the title to. After five minutes of daydreaming, Jon loomed over Skyler’s table. “Whatcha need?” His voice was kind and imposing; different from shop owners in the cities he resided in.

The bike shop displayed nothing but twisted frames and rusted gears. Within an hour Skyler’s tire was replaced. When he asked the price, Jon said, “20 bucks or you can help me fix this P.O.S. up.” He gestured towards a particularly worn mountain bike. Skyler looked at his watch, remembered his disassociation with time, and picked up a wrench.

“I saw you eyeing Summer.” Jon said after about they had decided to take a break. “The girl from Black Bean.” Skyler felt his face flush as images of coffee-covered tile and writhing bodies invaded his mind. He changed the subject and felt the espresso press against his bladder.

After the mountain bike was fixed and Jon sent him on his way, Skyler walked his bicycle back to 214 Main Street. It was probably 4PM, the sun started to recede. Jon told him that New York City was about 5 hours riding, small change to Skyler. Jon did not bring her up again, but Summer remained on his mind.

He walked into the Black Bean one more time to see her packing a backpack. “Another triple, stranger?

“Skyler.” It was as good of a time as ever to give his name. A man emerged from the back room. Skyler could tell he worked at the Black Bean by his outfit matching Summer’s. She said something inaudible, then told Skyler to sit. Pump, Press, Twist Turn. The room was more vacant than in the morning. He felt as though his heart would expel from his chest. Skyler had not felt that way since the night he lost his virginity. She placed a ceramic mug in front of him as she sat and sipped her frothy drink, licking the foam off her crimson lips. This time Skyler was sure her intent was arousal. Her hazel eyes made him feel at home.

“Where to?” She sounded sincere. Skyler had momentarily lost his ambition for the insomniac city and prize winnings. His mind wandered again. “Where to?” He had to think longer than he felt necessary. Suddenly it struck him how far his mind had traveled from his destination. He made a deliberate effort so sound certain in his answer. The sun receded.

“The Big Apple.” The bright lights of New York outshone her smile in his mind. His state of mind snapped back to the state of New York. He arrived in Valentine for a tire, not a woman. He stood. “I have to go, I need to be there tomorrow.” A handshake was presented, and their only physical contact was short of what he had imagined. His Schwinn called to him.

On Main Street, he stood with his feet rooted to the pavement. 159, 157, 153. Something was missing. He raised his right arm. The time was 2:14.

2007-02-27T14:34:00.000-08:00

Left? Right?
It's all the same
Right? Wrong?
when you get down to it.
I don't want to think this
I don't want to think.
I don't want to wonder,
I don't want to wander,
I don't want to leave,
I don't want to stay,
Light? Dark?
no differences except one is lacking.
But which one?
Is the light lacking cover?
Is the dark lacking warmth?
Lies? Truth?
When we see each other again
True? False?
You will still just pretend.
Because life is a game,
a game you were good at.
Now my board is wiped clean,
the tiles spell out nothing,
nothing at all.
Zero points.
Zero Score.
Endless possibility,
but only in the wake of distruction.
I have nothing left to say.
But I want to see
If I can make a word
Can I will it my way?

Rocky vs. Writer's Block.

2007-02-26T22:24:00.000-08:00

A wise person once told me that the only way to get rid of writers block is to write. Just write anything. So this is me writing. It is currently 1:23pm and I have a paper that I want finished by tomorrow. So I have arrangements to be woken up at apx 6:30 am. I'm currently talking to my sister. We're going over the specs of my paper. My flashlight it partially obstructing the screen, and a cigarette droops from my mough. She continues to talk about the ideas I have. I hate them all. We talk about the B on my paper. I want to sleep so I might.

This is Rocky Versus Writers block, and my mind is dying.

Writer's Block

2007-02-26T20:22:00.000-08:00

(non)-/Fiction

2007-02-24T16:01:00.000-08:00

I like to stare at strangers and wonder what they are thinking. Like the guy at that table who keeps opening the front cover of his book and closing it. He's done it four times so far. He couldn't possibly get any information out of that front cover, can he? So why does he keep doing it? What is he thinking? Who is he?
{Non-fiction}He scratches his temple, staring intently at his blank notebook paper. The pencil skims across the surface, performing a symbolic dance of education and learning. The papers shift, and the eraser removes all darkness on the page. He taps his pencil impatiently and begins flipping through his binder. Page one, page 17, page 42, page 40. He scratches his arm and looks around the room. Maybe someone will save him from this mediocre Saturday in the library. He looks back at his sheet and wonders what to do next. Page 28. His smooth brown hair forms to fit the crevices of his fingers as he rubs his scalp. Understanding the material is the main goal. He turns to the book and opens the front cover. He doesn't know where to go, what to look for. He closes it. He shields his eyes from the rest of the library as the silent people-watchers type through the silence, tip tap tip. The typer's friend attempts to gain attention only to be replied by "shh." The student looks to see what the ruckus happening to his left is about, and turns back to his page. He works the pencil back and forth, noticing mistakes and erasing them, writing more. The front cover of the book now remains open. He sniffs sadly. He isn't sick, but the phrase 'bored to tears' had to have come from somewhere. {fiction}He grabs the water bottle out of his backpack, looking around to see if the 'no drink' policy would be enforced. He never really understood why a policy like that would be made anywhere. People need water, and it seems like such a silly rule to enforce. He looks back towards the book, searching for the answer. With or without the correct solution, he must go on. He looks around the room one more time, maybe someone will notice him, maybe someone will take him away from this, the library, his Saturday night. Maybe he will finish in time to ask the brunette at the checkout desk what time she gets out, have a coffee, share some dialogue. His head begins racing in all different directions, skewed by previous experience and unknown hope. He shakes his head back and forth as if he could shake the thoughts as a wet bitch shakes off water. Finally giving up, he begins to pack his things. He closes the book, organizes his notes, fills his backpack and raises to his feet. He looks around one last time for somebody like him, somebody who would rather sit down and talk than study in stuffy scenery, a claustrophobic cavern of books and brains. He flees the scene and does not look back. He winks at the brunette on his way out.

Ew, what a horrible ending I gave that... I can do better, but I'm pretty tired... and kind of bored with my character. He's boring. I didn't get anything from him, but he just sharpened his pencil and flipped it into his hands before sitting down. I could have used that, but now I'm leaving. What an asshole.

Your Box.

2007-02-23T15:11:00.000-08:00

I have a box. Black, Japaneese, a gift from Sue. She was my sister at one point. When I was young, much younger than I remember, my family hosted an exchange student from Japan. My teddy bear still wears the shirt she made for me before she left. She had this amazing puffy paint, and there's a drawing of a young Rocky in aname style smiling, blonde hair, and a striped shirt. For some reason I'm blue. I used to wear the shirt all the time, and then I got bigger and grew out of it. It still fits Ted like a glove.
A couple of years ago, a package arrived in the mail. A tea set with chopsticks and plates. Wonderful, beautiful, and glorious. The kind that you would see on Antiques Roadshow. There was also a black box with faded blue lines on it. A lovely box, and I stole it from my parent's house.
I stored his memories in that box. It sat next to my desk. Crude drawings on cigarette packs and little trinkets: beer caps, small notes, reminders of who you were to me. I haven't opened it for a long time. I looked at it this afternoon, and I wanted to remember. Remember the pain, the hurt, make it real. If it's real, I can grow from it. So I opened the box.
Empty. I must have removed the contents at some earlier point in the year, tossed them into that trash symbolically of how you threw me away. I guess I thought that if you could get rid of me, I could get rid of your memories. So now all you are to me is an empty box.
But there is something in the box: a memory lingers. Pain. It is real, and the empty confines is a clostrophobic reminder of how we ended. But that's who you are: an empty box with a lingering pain. Not just to me, but to everybody you cross. So enjoy your lonley demise. I won't be there when you crash.

Ash Wednesday

2007-02-21T19:26:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever explained my detest for Catholicism as I will right now. Every person walking by, I wanted to scream, "You got shit on your forehead!!!" I can't stand people asking me what I'm giving up for lent. Excuses. Life is full of them. It makes sense now why I loathe so many holidays; they sereve as an excuse for people to do or not do something. Caholics... I'm not sure I want to go there today. But I just don't understand how so much of the human population is brainwashed into believing that if they put a piece of burnt wood on their head during some nondescript Wednesday, it'll up there chances for having a cool afterlife. If I went around on every second tuesday of November with my clothes inside out, telling people that this pleases my god and he will bestow greatness upon me if I practice, everybody would think me to be mad. But Catholics, no. They walk around ALL day with that piece of shit on their foreheads because it represents something or whatever. Let me tell you, communion? Drink my blood? Eat my fleash? Vampirism. Cannabalism. But Christians frown upon that, don't they. Hmm.... Double standarda anyone? The church is full of them. Contradictions because they don't understand what is said in the bible... Idiocy because somebody does not fit into their norm. I just can't fucking take it.

Wake up.

Blank Page

2007-02-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

If I had more to write about, the more I would write. A common excuse.
Regardless, I have to go get my paper back... see how I did.
Hopefully the shit I vomited on that page comes back halfway decent.
Whatever...
I'll write soon.

"Gorilla Tactics" - final draft of Creative Writing paper I, 3 typos?

2007-02-07T13:04:00.001-08:00

"I can't believe you'd still be using that stupid white lighter. You should know better. It's bad luck." I downed what was left of my beer and took a long drag of my cigarette. It was Cora's turn to buy rounds. Kip just stared at me. His eyes became more piercing as the second hand ticked on some alcohol-related neon clock that shone through the smoky din of the bar. Cora slowly rose and left before she became involved in the banter between Kip and me.

"Pieter," he said, "I'm not kidding around. Give it back." I looked past him, into the bar and saw that Dennis had finally shown up. "Cora's at the bar," Kip said. His gaze never left my eyes, no matter how much I looked away. Dennis nodded and ditched his affects. He pivoted on his left and headed towards his entrance. He looked briefly at the lighter, and then towards me. I shook my head no as he exited. "Give it back," Kip's blonde hair beginning to moisten with sweat, like a ball of golden yarn in a transparent washing machine. This was nothing unusual; he always sweats when he gets mad. We were both too stubborn to have this last for a simple two minutes, and we were not close enough to arrive at a drunken resolution.

We stared intently at each other for a few minutes. Neither of us would back down. Some 90’s alternative rock song (probably the Gin Blossoms or Better than Ezra) began playing on the jukebox. The simple melody and melodic lyrics blended seamlessly with the weekday bar ruckus as I flinched. A hand lay on my shoulder, the soft touch of interruption that broke my focus on Kip. A woman apologized; asking if I had dropped the lighter, no longer resting on its crimson grave of beer stains and cigarette ash. “That’s mine!” Kip said, quickly fidgeting in his seat to better access the trinket she was holding. I snatch the lighter before he has a chance, and with a quick thank you, I stuffed it into my pocket. She looked at each of us, slightly confused, and regressed to rejoin her group of thirty-somethings. When she left my line of sight, I spiked the lighter back onto the ground as if I had just scored the winning touchdown in some farcical football game.

“No,” I said. My eyes did not meet Kip’s as I said this. I simply reached behind him for my tattered brown sport coat, which was resting on the back of an unoccupied chair. I searched the deep pockets for something that would ease his anger. On the table in front of him, I placed an unreliable clear-blue lighter: the kind that would be acquired by turning a quarter through a mechanism in front of a grocery store, if lighters were accessible this way.

“What the fuck is this?!” His face grew angrier by the second. I scrounged around my dirty blue-jeans pockets for my pack of Marlboro Reds and removed one; two remained. I pulled in the sweet smoke, igniting the tip of my cigarette with the flame of my silver Zippo. I glanced towards Kip and moved the box closer to him and offered my fire. He slowly rose from his chair, ignored my donation of light and fire. He walked past me, my chair tipped foreword as he attempted to squeeze between my back and the wall. I saw him walking towards the lighter, determined to reclaim the unlucky trinket I liberated. My foot flew swiftly and landed atop the torch. He collapsed into the chair opposite to me and rested his head in the crevice his bent elbow made. His camouflage patterned sleeve contrasted against the cool black table and lime green ashtray. “Pieter,” he mumbled through his arm. I raised my head as to ask what, regardless of the fact that he could not see me in his current position. “Why won’t you just give it back?”

I set my cigarette on the smooth groove within the rounded ashtray and looked intently. I chose my words wisely. “Do you know why white lighters are bad luck?” He shook his head back and forth in his elbow, his ears brushing on each of his sleeves, relaying back and forth. “It originated in Vietnam. When the soldiers were in trenches, using a white lighter would make them more visible than they already were by lighting the damn cigarette. It’s the same as not lighting more than two cigarettes with the same flame. Basically, get over it,” I said. “I gave you a replacement. Plus, it’s not like you don’t have fifty lighters in your apartment: none of which, I might add, are white.” His head shifted as he reached into his Dockers pocket, grabbing his silver cigarette case: well worn from over a year of use. He took the last one and slammed the case shut, making a sound like a chime piercing through the slowly raising volume of the bar. After he raised the cigarette to his lips, he grasped the lighter I had exchanged for his. After six failed attempt, he finally ignited his cigarette in a certain self-defeat I knew would not last. He leaned back into his chair and looked on the ground, searching casually for the lighter, which was still buried by my foot.

Cora returned with 3 bottles of beer and distributed them among the group. Dennis sat down and began drinking the orange juice and vodka he started every Tuesday night with. I excused myself, heading towards the bathroom. Before I stood, I covertly reached towards the ground and scooped up the white lighter. I had plans for it. “I’ll be right back. Anybody want anything else?” An empty gesture, we had just received Cora’s nightly contribution to our friendship. “Besides you, Kip,” added before he had a chance to ask for his lighter.

I headed towards the bathroom. I went into the stall and dropped the lighter, making a plunk into the dirty toilet. I flushed and watched the lighter swirl out of existence, never to be seen again. I smiled to myself. I drained a purely unlucky practice from my naïve friend. I returned to the table and found Kip on all fours. He hunted for his fallen lighter: I returned to the table and downed my beer. It was bad luck to have that lighter; he is down one.

Superstition (working title)

2007-02-05T21:47:00.000-08:00

"I can't believe you'd still be using that stupid white lighter. You should know better. It's bad luck." I drowned what was left of my beer and took a long drag off of my cigarette. It was Cora's turn to buy rounds. Kip just stared at me, his eyes becoming more piercing as the second hand ticked on some alcohol-related neon clock which shone through the smoky din of the bar. Cora slowly rose and left before she became involved in the banter between Kip and me.

"Pieter," he said, "I'm not kidding around. Give it back." I look past him, into the bar and see that Dennis had finally shown up. "Cora's at the bar," Kip said, his gaze never leaving my eyes, no matter how much I look away. Dennis nods and ditches his affects, pivoting on his left and heading towards his entrance. He looks briefly at the lighter, and then at me as I shake my head no. He exits. "Give it back," Kip's stringy blonde hair beginning to moisten with sweat. This was nothing unusual, he always sweats when he gets mad, but we're both too stubborn to have this last for a simple two minutes, and we were not close enough to arrive at a drunken resolution.

We stared intently at each other for a few minutes, neither of us backing down. Some alternative rock song (probably the Gin Blossoms or Better than Ezra) began playing on the jukebox, blending seamlessly with the weekday bar ruckus as I flinched. A hand lay on my shoulder, the soft touch of interruption breaking my focus on Kip. A woman apologized; asking if I had dropped the lighter, no longer resting on its crimson grave of beer stains and cigarette ash. “That’s mine!” Kip said, quickly fidgeting in his seat to better access the trinket she was holding. I snatch the lighter before he has a chance, and with a quick thank you, I stuffed it into my pocket. She looked at each of us, slightly confused, and regressed to rejoin her group of thirty-somethings. When she left my line of sight, I spiked the lighter back onto the ground as if I had just scored the winning touchdown in some farcical football game.

“No,” I said. My eyes did not meet Kip’s as I said this, simply reaching behind him for my tattered brown sport coat, which was resting on the back of an unoccupied chair. On the table in front of him, I placed an unreliable clear-blue lighter: the kind that would be acquired by turning a quarter through a mechanism in front of a grocery store, if lighters were accessible this way.

“What the fuck is this?!” His face grew angrier by the second. I scrounger around my pockets for my pack of Marlboro Reds and remove one; two remain. I pulled in the sweet smoke, igniting the tip of my cigarette with the flame of my silver Zippo. I glance towards Kip and move the box closer to him, offering my fire. He slowly rose from his chair, ignoring my offerings of lighter and fire. He walked past me, my chair tipping foreword as he squeezed through my back and the wall. I saw him walking towards the lighter, determined to reclaim the unlucky trinket I liberated. My foot flew swiftly and landed atop the torch. He collapsed into the chair opposite to me and rested his head in the crevice his elbow made, bent and resting on the cool black table just beside the Newport ashtray. “Pieter,” he mumbled through his arm. I raised my head as to ask what, regardless of the fact that he could not see me in his current position. “Why won’t you just give it back?” I set my cigarette on the smooth groove within the rounded ashtray and look intently, choosing my words wisely.

“Get over it,” I said. “I gave you a replacement. Plus, it’s not like you don’t have fifty lighters in your apart: none of which, I might add, are white.” His head shifted as he reached into his pocket, grabbing his silver cigarette case, well worn from over a year of use. He took the last one and slammed the case shut, making a sound like a bell piercing through the raising volume of the bar. After he raised the cigarette to his lips, he grasped the lighter I traded. After six failed attempt, he finally ignited his cigarette in a certain self-defeat I knew would not last. He leaned back into his chair and looked on the ground, searching for the lighter which was still buried by my foot.

Cora returned with 3 bottles of beer, distributing them among the group. Dennis sat down and began drinking the burnt looking orange drink he started every Tuesday night with. I excused myself, heading towards the bathroom. Before I stood, I reached towards the ground and scooped up the white lighter. I had plans for it. “I’ll be right back. Anybody want anything else?” I didn’t expect a response, seeing as we all just acquired beers from Cora. “Besides you, Kip,” I said before he had a chance to ask for his lighter. I headed towards the bathroom and found it empty. I went into the stall and dropped the lighter, making a plunk into the dirty toilet. I flushed and watched the lighter swirl out of existence, never to be seen again

Work in Progress-Fiction Assignment I

2007-02-02T14:38:00.000-08:00

I threw the white lighter on the coarse red carpeting. He should know better, I thought. "Why did you do that," he asked. I couldn't believe that such a seasoned smoker would still be wielding a white lighter, and I'm sure my face showed my astonishment. "Give it back," said Kip, a look of contempt growing over his weathered face.
"I can't believe you'd still be using that stupid white lighter. You should know better. It's bad luck." I drowned what was left of my beer and took a long drag off of my cigarette. It was Cora's turn to buy rounds. Kip just stared at me, his eyes becoming more piercing as the second hand ticked on some alcohol-related neon clock which shone through the smoky din of the bar. Cora slowly rose and left before she became involved in the banter between Kip and me.
"Pieter," he said, "I'm not kidding around. Give it back." I look past him, into the bar and see that Dennis had finally shown up.
"Cora's at the bar," Kip said, his gaze never leaving my eyes, no matter how much I look away. Dennis nods and ditches his affects, pivoting on his left and heading towards his entrance. He looks briefly at the lighter, and then at me as I shake my head no. He exits. "Give it back," Kip's stringy blonde hair beginning to moisten with sweat. This was nothing unusual, he always sweats when he gets mad, but we're both too stubborn to have this last for a simple two minutes, and we were not close enough to have a simple and drunken resolution.

*end scene*

That's just the intro... let me know if you have any ideas.

Everyone loves the dream, but I kill it.

2007-02-01T09:28:00.000-08:00

On my cluttered desk, there are many objects. 4 cigarette packs, only one with cigarettes still in it. 2 lighters, one green and one white with pink floral designs. 2 ashtrays, one with 7 butts the other with 2. A glass of water I still haven't taken away. Some candy wrappers from Lindor Truffles. A Dave and busters card with some credits still on it. An envelope from my sister's wedding scribed with character names from Dungeons and Dragons, a zebra stripped and padded container containing change next to a bag I have yet to empty. A half-consumed bottle of pepto-bismol. A shot glass with the sugary remains stuck to the bottom. 3 rocks around a bottle cap, smooth and shiny rocks. Two of them are black, the other is white and aquamarine. a pair of scissors pointing towards a pig that lights up and abnoxiously squeaks when you press the button on its back. An orange sharpie and a blue twenty sided die. A packet of gay gum and "I'm not straight" candies. A box containing camel cash, recepts from Chipolte, and a roll of pennies. A thork, a stick of deoderant, a pack of AA batteries, an empty bowl of Resee's Puffs, an empty box of Wheat Thins, Mr. Salt and Ms. Pepper, a Gambit action figure, a series of remotes that I don't know the purpose of, and a couple of bottle caps. A wine cork and a series of notes from various people. An insence burner for oils depicting a wizard staring at a large dragon surrounding a castle, a couple packs of half full matchbooks, and a tag holder from Panera holding various concert tickets. There are also my favorite lighters that have run out of purpose long ago, a bracelet from Bar 11, an ashtray from my sister which is too nice to use, and a zebra stationary box which holds much more than stationary. That's just the bottom half of my desk, not including the zebrahead mousepad and wireless mouse.

Bar 11-Second Person creative writing in-class project

2007-01-31T19:02:00.001-08:00

Walk up 11th street and you are almost there. You will shuffle by a doorbell. Honestly, a bell that hangs off the door. Do not ring it: you will only cause problems. Remember this piece of vital information later because you will need it. Continue walking past and make the first left. At this point, you can see your destination. Behind a plastic entrenched door lies the wonderland of your choosing. Open the door, pay the three bucks and search the room for someone you know. When you see them, go the other way. If they really want to talk, they will come to you. They were here first, don’t ruin there fun. Take your coat off, become more comfortable, and begin with a drink of your choosing. Do not tip the bartender yet; you will soon be drunk and throwing money on the bar like a desperate businessman in a sleazy strip club. Trust me, the bartender won’t worry about not getting that one-dollar bill from your stingy sober wallet. About half way through your first drink, or if your party finishes their first drinks early, order everyone a “Flaming Dr. Pepper” as well as a Yingling Lager. It is worth is. Do not take pictures: everybody hates those people. Do not stare at the trinkets adorning the wall: you will stick out like a map-wielding first-timer in New York City gawking at how tall the skyscrapers are. Do not buy the person you are attracted to a drink: you’re wasting your money because they’re already taken or not taken to you. Don’t dress down, but don’t dress up. You must find a happy medium of style and comfort, or you will be (please refer to the map carrying visitor in NYC). Don’t drink more than you can handle. If you’re going to vomit, do so outside and leave before that buff guy gets puke on his shoes. He will destroy your face with the flick of his sausage-like forefinger. Do not stare, do not sing by yourself, do not dance unless with someone who doesn’t dance as well as you. Please, I cannot stress this enough, DO NOT think about work, school, your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, that crusty yellowed blob of mustard on your shoe, that guy from High School you literally ran into on the street, the strange aroma of pigs feet and French fries coming from the person next to you, god, global warming, the current state of affairs, or anything you would bitch, moan, complain, or bring people down with. Just relax, that is the only advice I can give you about Bar 11.

Renewing the Habit

2007-01-31T07:10:00.000-08:00

I used to write everyday... then somewhere along the line I stopped. I didn't just stop writing every day, I stopped writing period. I don't know if I ran out of things to say, or if I felt that I shouldn't write anymore because no one was reading, or if it was because most of my favorite people stopped. But I'm going to try to write every day again. I feel like it's time. I'll find time.
I hate time.
I'm taking a creative writing course this semester, my next to last at Pitt. Maybe I'll post some of the shit I write on here, can't hurt, right? I'm surprised with myself that I haven't started earlier with some good writing courses. I'm actually really excited about it. I haven't had a class that I would actually feel somewhat sad about cancelations. But I want to go to this class, and it makes me happy.

A shift in Ideals

2007-01-30T10:35:00.000-08:00

My music taste is a series of polar backlashes. Not polar as in very cold, polar as in opposites (although it could be considered a cold shift). During a period of change, I will generally put my entire music library, all contained on my computer, on random. This is how I generally figure out what kind of music I like right now. I will often hear songs which I have never heard before. Because of this, it is quite enjoyable just to listen to the random music I have acquired over the past couple years.
Another topic of interest is the playlists infecting the left side of my iTunes. I never use them anymore, but they were mostly used for mix CDs I provided specific people. I like to look through them and see what I used to listen to. Most recently, I've been falling out of Ska. I got there from a backlash of Emo music. It fits with the time, and I enjoy it greatly. It wasn't me anymore. Ska isn't really me anymore either. So where do I go from Ska?
Hardcore/metal/whatever you want to call it.
Genre's are getting so mixed anymore it's pointless to try and figure it out.

Begin again.

2007-01-29T20:40:00.000-08:00

Everything is subjective. More importantly is what symbolism certain characters begin to mean. I have a friend who is the elipsis (...). He has explained what that means to him, but that is not important right now. What is important is the Interabang (?!). I heard of this symbol once, and began to sketch it in every notebook I have. It is rarely used, and is generally called an Interrobang, from old english, and was represented as a single character of a question mark with a superimposed exclamation point. While I like this, I feel that the interabang punctuation serves a better purpose for that which I want.
The question mark begins. Generally when drawing it, the point is a scratched and slightly cracked heart. Out of the heart pours smoke wafting in the top region of the character. It was fire for a period of time, but the fire has died and only the smoke remains. It begins innocent and unknowing. The question without an answer. In the most general and obvous of questions being 'why?'. The interabang is cyclical.
Exclaiming follows. the top being a drop, most likely a tear with a small shine coming from an unknown light source, falling upwards from a nautical star, for direction. The point symbolizes everything. Everything is unknown, and everything is questioned.
Question Everything.
My not-so-new credo.